


Seize the Moment

by JodyNorman



Series: The Legacy [10]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, Psychic Bond, Supernatural Elements, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 51,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JodyNorman/pseuds/JodyNorman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair have been at odds for weeks now, and things are only heading downhill.  That is, until Blair disappears.  Drawn into the VR world of a madman, Blair must fight to stay alive in an AU version of Vietnam.  Luckily, he's not alone.  A man who claims he's from Blair's past is helping him, but it's not enough.  In a final bid to save Blair's life, Jim joins his Guide in the VR world, where together they must work past their issues in order to escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published as a novel.

          There was an edge to Blair's tone that made Simon wince, and he glanced over at his windows, sighting his team squared off across Jim's desk.

          "Damn it, Jim, I'm telling you, you weren't listening! If you had–"

          "And for the fifth time, Sandburg, I'm telling you, if I'd done it that way, it wouldn't've worked!" Jim's voice was harsh, with none of the affectionate exasperation that usually underlay his words, and Simon frowned, noticing the way that everyone in the bullpen was carefully ignoring the argument. No ordinary squabble, this. He sighed. And it had been happening all too often of late.

          "It was a fluke that it worked, man! It could've gone wrong, almost did, and then where would we be?" Blair's eyes were blazing, and he stalked around the desk to face Jim, the fury in his expression setting off alarm bells for Simon. He stood up.

          "'We'?" Jim snarled, hands on his hips. "What 'we'?"

          There was a moment of diamond-sharded silence in the bullpen for an instant, and every detective in the room held their breath, not daring to glance over at the pair.

          "Fine," Blair gritted, whirling toward the doorway and grabbing his backpack in the same move. "Just fine, man!" He strode toward the exit, swinging his pack over his shoulders and settling it. "Since you obviously don't need my help," he flung at Jim, "you won't mind if I take off!"

          "Sandburg–!"

          "Let him go, Jim." Simon's firm grip halted the Sentinel before he could start after the younger man, and he met Ellison's cold glare head-on. "Give him some space," he ordered. "That's what he wants, and you could use some too."

          "With all due respect, _Captain_ ," Jim growled through clenched teeth, "how the hell do you know what my partner wants?"

          Simon took a breath. "I know, because I've seen that look before, and you'd know it too if you'd stop shouting and look at him instead."

          Jim opened his mouth, then closed it, and Simon loosened his grip on the other man's shoulder. "Go on, get out of here. Take a few minutes in the deli. Do something, anything, but get out of here for a few minutes. And if you see Sandburg, leave the kid alone," he added as Jim started toward the door at a slow walk.

          Ellison threw him a baleful glare, but didn't object, and Simon felt the tension in the room relax as the man exited, the exhalations of relief almost audible. He headed for his office, frowning.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Joel wandered over to the table where Jim sat hunched over his untouched donut, and halted, one hand on the back of a chair. "Mind some company?" he asked, undeterred by the sour glance he received in return.

          "No," Ellison answered curtly.

          Taggert sat down, ignoring the annoyed look his action garnered.

          "I said no," Jim growled.

          Joel nodded. "I know." He let the silence build for a few minutes. "You want to talk about it?"

          "No."

          The older officer hiked an eyebrow at the Sentinel's, then turned his attention on his own steaming cup of coffee.

          "He just won't leave me alone!"

          Joel weighed the statement against the annoyance in the man's voice. "And?"

          Jim turned a fierce gaze on him. "And what?"

          "That's my question," Taggert answered. "Hell, Ellison," he added as the Sentinel's eyes narrowed, "this is Sandburg we're talking about here. He's never left anyone alone, especially you. Goes with being a partner."

          Jim snorted.

          "Well, he is," Joel replied, settling back in his seat. "To you, anyway."

          "Huh," Ellison muttered, toying with his donut. "Maybe I don't need a partner."

          Joel stifled his alarm, then sighed as Jim's glance swung toward him.

          "That made your heart jump," Ellison observed. "What's the matter, Taggert? Don't think I can function on my own anymore?"

          "You tell me," Joel shot back. "You're the Sentinel. You told me a partner came with the territory, remember?"

          Jim's gaze fell. "Sometimes I wonder," he muttered, then pushed away from the table and rose, striding for the exit before Taggert could react.

          The older officer watched Jim vanish out the door and sighed, leaning back and drinking his coffee in troubled silence.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Blair crossed campus with a steady pace, trying not to let his reluctance slow him down enough to miss the bus that would take him back to the station for his ten a.m. meeting with Simon and Jim. After their argument earlier, he wasn't looking forward to seeing Jim again so soon, and he sighed as he cut across a wide swath of grass to another sidewalk.

          What was going on between them, anyway? It had only been six weeks since Jim had been reinstated in the department after the psychological evaluation he'd had to undergo when he'd lost himself as James Kallini, an undercover persona he'd created years before.[1]

          They had both been overjoyed at Jim's reinstatement, and had dived back into working together as if nothing had happened to separate them, only to find, slowly, that something had indeed happened, something major.

          But it hadn't been obvious immediately, Blair mused, absently nodding to one of his students as they passed each other. No, at first, every day had been a joy – waking to find Jim really alive and really there, falling back into routines he'd thought forever lost, rediscovering the little rituals that had marked their daily living – a reclamation that each of them had enjoyed. They'd gone out of their way to spend time together, every moment a celebration of what they'd come so close to losing.

          And then things started to change. Jim became impatient with his advice and started acting on his own – sometimes without even asking Blair for suggestions. So far that had worked, but what really annoyed the anthropologist was when Jim ignored what he said, or even did the complete opposite.

          Damn it, he was worth more than that; he wasn't just a lap dog that sat beside Jim in the truck and spouted conversation for the fun of it! He had a life, too, and a busy one at that. He didn't ride along with Jim for his own health. And, if it came down to that, it was _his_ health that suffered a lot of times, but Jim didn't seem to remember that. If all Ellison wanted was a "yes man," he could hire someone for that; what Blair did couldn't be bought or sold, and his knowledge wasn't something Ellison could replace. Maybe he should just let Jim work on his own, see how fast he fell on his face…

          Blair shook his head at himself. He couldn't do that; Jim's life rode on the line sometimes with his senses, and what the anthropologist had to offer was sometimes all he had to work with. Too bad the Sentinel couldn't seem to remember that right now.

          Sandburg halted and took a deep breath, letting the foot traffic flow around him for a moment. Keep this up and by the time he reached the station again he'd be in the same rage he'd been in when he'd left, and he really didn't want to face Jim, or, more importantly, Simon, in that mood.

          He glanced around, locating a place he dimly remembered. He smiled thinly at the common-sense name – _The Coffee and Tea Shop_. He turned away from the nearby bus stop and started toward it. Better to grab some tea here, calm his stomach, and his nerves, some and then catch the bus. He still had a few minutes, and this way he wouldn't get to the precinct any earlier than necessary.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Blair settled down at a booth, enjoying the between-class quiet of the small shop and sipped his herbal tea, trying to relax enough to face Jim in a half-hour's time.

          His thoughts slipped back to the previous argument, and he sighed. He might not be able to figure out the true source of their problems, but he was pretty sure he knew what had been the springboard of this morning's argument, and it wasn't pretty.

          Yesterday.

          He'd been standing in the kitchen, watching Jim fix supper. They'd been arguing, as usual, although he didn't remember what it had been about.

          "Jim, damn it, listen–"

          "No!" The furious edge to the word made it clear that the detective had gone as far as he was prepared to go, and he turned sharply, bread knife in hand.

          The movement mirrored Kallini's lunge from some months before – when he'd knocked Blair off his feet with a well-placed fist – and, in spite of himself, the anthropologist flinched. He managed to keep it to a small jerk, but it was more than enough for a Sentinel to notice, and their eyes met, the shock in Jim's gaze melting quickly into hurt and then anger.

          They hadn't managed a civil word to each other the rest of the evening.

          Blair sighed, nursing the warm cup in his hands. _Damn, damn, damn_ , he thought. _Why'd I have to lose it like that? I knew he wasn't going to hurt me. No matter how angry he was, or what he was holding, Jim would never do that. Never even think it. I should've–_

          "Blair, isn't it?"

          He looked up, finding a young woman standing beside his table, smiling down at him uncertainly. "It is Blair, right?" she repeated when he just blinked at her.

          "Uh, yeah," he answered automatically, "that's me, Blair Sandburg."

          "I thought so!" She smiled. "I was one of the TAs when we all taught that interdisciplinary humanities course last year, remember?"

          He thought back and nodded, although his memory of her was vague at best. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

          "Oh, good!" she answered, slipping into the seat across from him. "You don't mind if I join you for a few minutes, do you?" she asked before he could object to her action. "I saw a familiar face and just couldn't resist saying hello," she bubbled, and Blair tried to pull his thoughts into some kind of order.

          "I'm still a grad student, still working as a TA over in humanities; how about you? When do you graduate?"

          "Uh–" Blair started, but she cut him off as she rattled on.

          "Have you tried this? I just tried it a couple of days ago and I really liked it–"

          "I need to–"

          "Someone introduced me to it, and I was just hooked, you know? I mean, it was fabulous! Here, try a sip, I guarantee you'll like it!" She shoved her drink over to him. "Go on, really, it'll change your life, for the better, of course! It almost has a spiritual effect, and if you don't try it, I'm going to be really hurt!"

          Blair sighed, then tipped the glass and took a few swallows of the drink, recognizing the new blend of chai as he did so. "Yeah," he agreed as he set it down, "it's pretty good, but I really have to go." He was on his feet before she could protest, moving toward the entrance in quick steps. The hands of the clock on the wall informed him it was ten minutes to ten, and he swore softly as he exited the building. Even if he caught the bus right away, he was still going to be late to the meeting, and Jim would have every right to be annoyed at him then.

          The sun was bright as he stepped outside and he blinked, raising a hand to shield his eyes as he peered toward the bus stop. Good, there were several people there already, so the bus should be along soon.

          He started along the sidewalk, stumbling over a crack. _Man, it's warm outside; amazing what a difference a few minutes can make in the fall_. It had been cool when he'd walked in, but now he was sweating and he unzipped his jacket, stumbling again as he looked away from the path.

          _Boy, they should think about re-doing the sidewalks around here; they're getting really rough_.

          Glancing toward the bus stop again, he blinked and shook his head as his eyes blurred, then caught himself as he stumbled again. A thread of concern edged through him, and he squinted, the world fuzzing around the edges. "What–?"

          "Here, Blair, let us help you."

          "No…" The anthropologist tried to pull away from the young woman, absently noting that the animation she'd shown in the coffee shop was now gone, and the man on his other side wasn't smiling at all as he swung Sandburg's arm over his shoulder.

          "Come on, come with us," he ordered, and Blair found his feet obeying the words. The world blurred again, and he was only dimly aware of being shepherded to a car, the door slamming after he was seated inside. The growl of the motor was the last sound he remembered.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "He's late," Simon stated bluntly.

          Jim shifted, then nodded. "Yeah."

          "Well, can't you, uh, you know, do what you do with each other?" Simon asked, clearing his throat.

          The Sentinel grimaced. "It doesn't work that way, Simon. It's not like a phone line, you know. Besides," he added at the captain's hard stare, "that hasn't worked since I got back."

          Simon studied him. "Why not?"

          Jim shrugged. "How should I know? That's Sandburg's area, ask him." His gaze slid away from the other man, and he muttered, "Maybe it's just not there anymore."

          "That can't be a good thing, Jim."

          The detective shrugged. "You wanted to brief me on this new case, sir?" he added when Simon didn't reply.

          Banks bit back a sigh and watched the Sentinel's eyes narrow at the aborted sound. "Yes," he answered, shelving the issue for the moment. "It's a homicide," he continued, watching Jim sit up straighter. "Homicide has five of its people out with the flu, so they asked if we could take this one. Young male, Caucasian. University student, found in his car around five on Friday. No obvious cause of death. Blood tests are already in process, and the forensics people are on it."

          "Who found him?"

          Simon shrugged. "Another student who lives near him. A Maureen…" He consulted his notes. "Mikovsky. She lives at 324 University Drive, apartment fifteen. Says she's there in the evenings, except on Thursday, when she has a class."

          Jim scribbled in his notebook, then nodded, looking up. "Anything else, sir?"

          Simon studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "No, that'll be all."

          The door clicked shut behind Jim, the captain watching as Ellison grabbed his coat and strode from the room. He tried not to frown at his detective's almost jaunty air. "Jim, be careful out there. Without Sandburg your senses could get you into trouble," he said softly, knowing the Sentinel could hear him. He was rewarded by Jim's swift glare back at the office, and sighed as the detective exited the bullpen into the corridor.

 

[1] See previous story in timeline, "Only a Stone's Throw," in _Sensory Overload #6_.


	2. Chapter 2

          "He scared himself to death."

          Jim stared at the coroner, trying not to glance down at the body on the slab between them. "What?"

          "He scared himself to death," she repeated, shrugging at the detective's expression. "Hey, I just call them as I see them, I don't explain them."

          "You can't just… die that way!" Jim denied, taking an involuntary step backward as a technician opened a nearby door, the resulting draft sending the smell of a decomposing body surging into his nostrils. He tried not to gag as the odor thickened at the back of his throat and quickly focused on turning down the dial, Blair's mantra echoing almost unnoticed in the back of his mind.

          "Here," she said, cutting her words off and beckoning him into another room, stripping off her gloves as she did so. Tossing them into a waiting bin, she sat down behind her desk, her hands clasped in front of her.

          He closed the door behind them with relief and walked over to join her, his sinuses slowly relaxing into the scents of various office supplies, paper, and the faint smell of hot plastic that always marked computers running. "Go on," he said, sitting down across from her.

          She studied her hands for a moment, then looked up at him. "I've never seen anything quite like this before. According to his blood chemistry, he'd been operating on high adrenaline levels for days before he died, he hadn't eaten or slept much, and he was exhausted." She shook her head. "I'd say he was in a situation that terrified him, and that he spent a tremendous amount of effort trying to escape it, with no success. But the physical evidence doesn't bear that out."

          "Explain."

          "Well," she said, not responding to his curtness, "he has no physical injuries, and except for a tremendous amount of dried sweat on his skin it looks as if he wasn't doing anything strenuous. There are no scrapes or bruises, his clothes aren't torn, he's not even dirty."

          She looked at him, and he looked back, hoping he didn't appear as confused as he felt. "And he can't have been cleaned up and dumped in his car," he said, "because that would've washed off the sweat as well."

          "Exactly," she replied, nodding. "But I did find something that might lead you somewhere. There are traces of a psychotropic drug in his system, and a needle puncture in his right arm. From the position and the size of the opening, I'd guess he was hooked up to an IV. And no," she added as Jim opened his mouth to speak, "he wasn't an addict. This was a fresh puncture, and there are no other old needle-marks. And nothing in his bloodwork indicates previous use of addictive substances. He didn't even smoke." She sighed. "He was also tied down, at the wrists and ankles, and there was a band across the forehead. He chafed himself raw."

          Jim shook his head. "Tell me more about the psychotropic drugs."

          She shrugged. "This isn't exactly my specialization, but basically they're drugs that have a mind-altering effect on an individual. Sedatives, tranquilizers, hallucinogens and the like are a few, but there are many more, some of them damned exotic. This wasn't anything common. It's a designer drug of some sort, and I'd guess it's highly specialized to have a specific effect on an individual."

          "Ouch."

          "Yeah," she agreed. "Whoever did this is educated and truly nasty, Jim. I don't know what that young man saw before he died, but I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

          Ellison nodded and stood, already moving toward the door. "Thanks, Doc." The door swung shut behind him before he caught her answer, his focus already elsewhere.

          Twenty minutes later Jim had talked to the forensics people, learning that there were a large number of fingerprints in the victim's car that weren't the victim's. They were already tracking down the young man's family and friends to compare to what they had found and promised to let him know when they came up with anything.

          "But I don't expect to," the head of the department told him resignedly. "Since he obviously died somewhere else, I think his murderer probably just dumped him in his car and left. I doubt we'll find anything to finger him with. The kid had a lot of friends who rode with him, and I think when we've fingerprinted them all, it'll pretty much nail down the unknowns. But you never know, we might get lucky."

          Jim hoped so, but as he climbed into his truck he doubted it. He dug into the compartment between the seats, finding only empty wrappers instead of the gum he was hoping for, and swore as he reached for the phone. Damn it, why couldn't Blair just dump the wrappers in the trash can and tell him when they were running out? Maybe it was time he should institute some house rules for the truck, too; make Sandburg toe the line.

          He punched out the number for the loft and listened to it connect, absently counting the rings as he fumed. Sandburg hadn't even shown up late, or called to apologize. That left Jim to do all the work. Well, he'd just make sure Sandburg did the paperwork, to pay for it. And then they would sit down and have a long talk about discipline, and doing the job.

          The message clicked on, and he waited for the beep. "Sandburg, pick up!" There was only silence on the other end and he grimaced. "You'd better not be there cleaning up the loft for Naomi, or I'm gonna kick your butt from now 'til Sunday. Pick up if you're there!"

          Still silence. He punched the off button with a fierce stab of his finger and dumped the cell phone onto the empty passenger seat. Turning the key, he revved the engine, then roared out of the parking lot, scowling.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The sun was getting low as Jim climbed back into the truck where it was parked in front of Marlene Mikovsky's apartment complex. He sighed tiredly as he slammed the door behind him. The vehicle shivered, the dappled sunlight on its hood dancing across the speckle of recent raindrops, and he paused, caught in the flicker. The sparkle was iridescent, shifting through the hues, changing as the breeze shifted the boughs above, staining the drops with patterned sunshine, bright, dark, bright, dark, bright…

          A splatter of wetness hit him in the face as a stronger gust of wind shook drops free from the trees, and he started, shaking his head as the world came back into focus around him. He glanced at his watch and frowned, fighting back a shiver. Ten minutes. He had zoned-out for ten minutes. Not good. He'd have to keep a tighter grip on himself.

          Closing his eyes, he leaned back, turning his thoughts to his unsatisfactory talk with Maureen. She had found Steve Burns in his car on Friday afternoon, and it was obvious, listening to her, that she was still immensely shaken up by it. Unfortunately, she didn't know anything that seemed helpful.

          Steve Burns had been a classmate of hers, a fellow undergraduate in chemistry. He was friendly, open-minded, and from what she'd said, hadn't an enemy in the world. When asked about his schedule, she had shrugged, saying the last time she'd seen him had been last Monday morning.

          Putting that missing time together with the coroner's report, Jim tried to recreate that week. Steve had spent an ordinary Monday by all reports, getting home around three p.m. He'd said a casual goodbye to Maureen and headed into his apartment, which when searched indicated a struggle of some sort. At a guess, he'd been ambushed when he'd walked in. He'd struggled, but been overcome, and was taken somewhere else, probably under the cover of darkness. Then the real ordeal had started, as he'd been strapped down and given an IV with some kind of psychotropic drug, and…

          _And what?_ Jim asked himself. _What happened next?_ Somehow, over the course of the following week Steve had been terrorized into exhaustion, forced into a panic that eventually killed him. But how? What could drive a man into such a state?

          Jim knew of brainwashing techniques that could be used to create situations inside a man's brain that could break him, but this was the middle of Cascade, Washington, not the front lines in some covert war, and he couldn't imagine any organization that would choose Steven Burns as a subject for such techniques. It wasn't like the boy had been involved in anything remotely resembling such intrigue, and even though he was still investigating the kid's life, Jim just didn't think mind manipulation by some agency or foreign power was the answer.

          But if it was, he was still going to nail the son-of-a-bitch responsible.

          Opening his eyes, he glanced at his wristwatch, frowning when he saw the time – 5:30. Blair's office hours were from 4:45 to 6:00 today, and he'd been scheduled to meet a student at 5:15. Reaching over to the passenger seat, Jim grabbed the phone and switched it on, punching out the anthropologist's office number. It rang five times, then was picked up by the answering machine: "Hi," Blair's voice said cheerfully. "You've reached the office of Blair Sandburg. I'm not in right now, but if you leave me a message I'll get back to you as soon as possible!"

          Waiting for the beep, Jim shook his head over the sanitized message, remembering Blair had told him once that the department had come down hard on several of his earlier, more creative messages, reminding him that he was a representative of the university, and the department, and that the ritual drumbeat of the Tanokian tribe didn't cut it as a background music for his welcome message.

          "Blair?" the detective asked as the beep sounded, almost biting his tongue over the worried tone that slipped out. "Sandburg, if you're there pick up, damn it!"

          Only silence answered him, and the timer cut him off before he could finish his second demand. Frowning, he punched up the dial tone, then stabbed in the loft number. Five minutes later he switched the phone off and tossed it onto the passenger seat, a hollow feeling beginning to carve into his stomach.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Simon, he's missing."

          Banks' hand tightened on the receiver, and he ran his other hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose before answering. "Are you sure?" He didn't need to ask who Jim was talking about; the man's worried tone made it perfectly clear. The captain felt a brief surge of relief that Ellison and Sandburg still had something of a partnership between them. He had started to wonder.

          "Yes, I'm sure!" Jim paused to take a breath, obviously reining in the irritation threatening to drown him. "He hasn't called all day, and I can't find him. I've checked hospitals, jails and the morgue, and there's no one answering his description in any of them."

          Simon inhaled and held it, trying to hold his own worry in check and knowing that the Sentinel could probably read it anyway without a problem. "Jim, it's only 8:30, maybe the kid just didn't want to come home tonight. Maybe he took some time off to think, after that argument this morning–"

          "No! He was supposed to be at the meeting this morning; he'd set time aside for it! He wasn't at his office hours, and he hasn't been back to the loft since we left this morning. And his car's still here. Something's wrong."

          "Is this your, uh–"

          "No," Jim snapped. "Just my instincts." He hesitated, then added lowly, "I can't– I don't know how to do that kind of thing anymore."

          "Sounds to me like you might want to consider trying," Simon commented. "Jim, if you're really convinced he's missing and not off on some self-realization trip, then I'll put out an APB on him. But if he turns up okay after that, I'll take it out of your hide."

          The Sentinel hesitated for a long moment, then sighed. "He's missing."

          "I'll call in the APB."

          "Thanks."

          Simon heard the worry behind the word. "Isn't Naomi supposed to be here this week?"

          "Yeah," Jim answered, his voice overly-controlled. "Friday evening."

          Banks took a deep breath, remembering the competent, fiery woman. She loved Blair deeply, and he shook his head. "I hope this is just a false alarm."

          "Me, too."

          "Well," the captain said, forcing the optimism, "it's only Monday. I'm sure we can find him before she gets here. Hell, he's probably off trekking the woods or something."

          "Probably," Jim answered, his voice flat.

          There was an awkward moment of silence, and Banks added briskly, "Well, if I'm going to call this in, I'd better get going. I'll see you – and Blair – in the morning."

          Jim's reply was monosyllabic, and Simon held his sigh until he'd hung up. "Damn," he breathed softly, feeling a familiar tightness in his gut. Blair would no more wander off on some kind of transcendental trek without warning them than he would willingly jump off the top of the police station. He and Jim might be having their difficulties, but they'd been through too much for that kind of irresponsibility. Besides, it was the middle of the semester, and he knew Sandburg wouldn't shirk his responsibilities at the university.

          He took a deep breath and lifted the phone.


	3. Chapter 3

          "Get down! Get down!"

          Bullets whined around him and Blair twisted to look back. He fell face first into the muck. Odors crowded in on him, jungle rot and water and dank vegetation, and for a moment he couldn't breathe.

          "Over there!"

          "I see them!"

          "Damn it, Bruce, get down!"

          There was a low shriek that cut off mid-note, and Blair cringed where he lay. Mud seeped into his pants and shirt, but he didn't dare shift position.

          "Sandburg, move!"

          The anthropologist rolled, three bullets smacking into the ground where he'd lain, a fourth snarling through the bushes above his head. A whiplash of pain cracked across his shoulder and he sucked in a breath, too surprised to cry out.

          "Sandburg, you okay?"

          An older man crawled up beside him, then levered himself to a seated position as the enemy fire started to diminish. Blair stared up at him, fighting to control himself. All he wanted to do was grab the stranger and shout at him, shake answers out of him. _Where am I? What happened?_ Panic gibbered through him and he clenched his fists, the small pain as nails bit palms helping to anchor him in rationality.

          "Here," the man said, helping him sit up as the shots finally petered out. "Come on, let me have a look at that."

          "Who-Who are you?" Blair sucked in a breath as the stranger probed his shoulder, the blazing stab of agony that surged drowning his arm drown all his other questions in its wake.

          "Hmm?" the man asked, glancing up. His gaze rested thoughtfully on the anthropologist's face for a moment, then he said, "I'm John Lonetree."

          Blue-eyed, long dark braids, high cheekbones… Sandburg focused on the details of his new companion's appearance to stall the pain, gritting his teeth as John carefully pulled his shirt away from the injury. "You're part Native," he managed, absently noting the faint wolf howl in the distance. "What tribe?"

          "I'm a member of the Oppressed Northwestern Tribes."

          "That an arm of AIM?" Blair muttered, garnering a surprised glance. "I'm an anthropologist," he added as two other men came up beside them, both of them holding guns that looked huge to Sandburg. "What–?"

          "He'll be fine, LT," John said, cutting off Sandburg's question. "Just a graze."

          "Good, good," the younger of the two men said. "I'd hate to lose another one to the damn VC today."

          "How many, Sarge?"

          The second man sighed. A sergeant, Blair translated, older than the officer. "Five on that last one. We're down to ten."

          "Damn," John swore softly, dusting powder on the anthropologist's injury.

          "When you two are through, come over and join us," the lieutenant said, nodding back the way he and the sergeant had come from.

          "Will do, LT," John answered.

          Blair watched the two men tramp off. Turning back to the Native American, he eyed him, wondering at the man who didn’t seem to fit in this time and place any more than he himself did. But at least John seemed to honestly care about him, and at the moment Blair would take whatever positives he could find.

          John hiked an eyebrow at his regard, but said nothing as he finished securing the pad across Sandburg's shoulder, then helped him up, leading the way over to a group of uniformed men scattered around a small clearing. He handed one the medkit he'd obviously borrowed, saying, "Thanks." Most of the men held guns at the ready even though almost all of them showed some kind of injury. Blair swallowed, glancing down at himself. He was wearing the same clothes he'd put on that morning, but now they were smeared with mud. There was no weapon hanging from his shoulder. He wondered when someone would notice the differences.

          "All right, guys, listen up!" The lieutenant's voice was crisp, showing no sign of the fatigue Blair could see in his eyes. "That group of VC was carrying two bags of documents, and from what we can decipher, it looks like some pretty hefty intelligence. We're heading back to base."

          The mens' expressions lightened and several smiled. "Yes, sir!" was the general response.

          "The bad news is, we're on our own – Charlie drilled our radioman, and the radio with him, so we're out of touch. And since we were under orders to keep radio silence unless there was an emergency, there's not going to be anyone looking for us for a while."

          Grumbles could be heard from everyone.

          "Now, you all know that some of the Charlies escaped, so they'll be back soon, you can bet on that, and with reinforcements. So the sooner we leave, the more time we'll have before they find our trail. Let's head out!"

          Blair followed John, falling in behind him as the group shuffled itself into a staggered line of men heading down a jungle trail at five yard intervals. Questions crowded through him, but he kept them to himself. _Vietnam_ _. That's where I am, but how? And why?_ Memories of the young woman in the coffee shop and the man who had helped her when he'd gotten dizzy flashed through him. He shook his head. _What did they do to me? And why? How? I'm not in Vietnam, I can't be. This can't be real, but damn, my shoulder hurts like it is. What do I do? And how can I get home?_

          Bleak terror twisted through him and he swallowed it down, tasting bile. Unbidden, a desperate half-angry plea slipped out. _Damn it, Jim, where the hell are you?_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

_Damn it, Jim, where the hell are you?_

          Ellison twisted uneasily, then woke, jerking his breath in with a gasp as the terror that had been riding his dream crested and abruptly died. Automatically he focused his hearing, listening, but the loft was silent, no heartbeat but his own echoing through it.

          He released the breath he'd been holding and rolled his head over, staring up into the early dawn light edging through his window.

          A faint echo of the fear that had woken him whispered through him, and he closed his eyes, focusing inward and reaching for a bond that he had steadfastly denied for weeks.

          It was faint, dying even as he found it, a small kernel lodged in the far depths of the link between him and Blair. It flickered feebly as he nudged it with a sense he couldn't have named. Feelings washed over him and then were gone, and the link, if it was that, guttered and faded away.

          "Shit," he whispered, not daring to open his eyes as he hung to the memory of the emotions he'd found. Working his way through them, he carefully picked the melange apart, strand by fading strand, with all the attention he would have given to a difficult piece of evidence.

          Fear. That was the first and strongest feeling, ranging from terror and panic to a tightly controlled uncertainty. Wherever Blair was, if the dream had been real, he was terrified.

          Confusion. Tangled up with the fear was complete and total bewilderment. Jim took that to mean that the anthropologist had had nothing to do with putting himself into whatever situation held him. But it also meant that he had no idea how to get himself out of it, and that made the Sentinel's fists clench.

          "What did you get yourself into this time?" he whispered, opening his eyes as the radio alarm went off. Soft music swelled into the room, a thread of sound barely audible to someone with ordinary hearing, but clear to him. He sighed and pushed himself out of bed, absently noticing the jaguar slipping out of the room on silent paws.

          Heading downstairs a few minutes later, Jim winced as his footsteps echoed, the sound seeming overly loud in the empty loft. Reluctant memories filtered through him of a time not so long ago when he'd stepped through the front door for the first time in months, Blair a shadow at his side, the rapport between them humming.

          And then, over the following weeks, that feeling of camaraderie had waned, and with it the trust and support that had been so much a part of their lives before the boat had blown up and he had become Kallini.

          _Why?_ he wondered for the first time. _What changed?_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Jim read the report over a third time, gritting his teeth as he felt the glances from the other detectives in the bullpen. News traveled fast, and everyone knew Blair was missing. He could feel the speculation in their gazes and, as a result, his concentration was shot to pieces.

          "So, Jim…" Joel's voice was calm, but the Sentinel could hear the faint edge to the follow-up question. "…where's Blair?"

          "I don't know," Jim snarled, glaring up at the large man as he loomed over the detective's desk. "He's missing."

          Joel leaned on the desk, his gaze steady. "You're sure he didn't just up and leave? That was a pretty nasty argument you two had yesterday, and it wasn't the first."

          "No, damn it!"

          Joel's gaze never wavered, and Ellison's lips tightened as he met it, aware of the listening silence in the bullpen. "We have our differences," he growled, forcing the words out, "but he'd never just leave without saying something."

          Taggert eyed him thoughtfully, then nodded. "No, Blair wouldn't do that. No matter how angry he was," he added as he straightened and headed toward his own office.

          Jim stared down at the report, trying to ignore his hot cheeks. Why did he feel like he was in the wrong here? It wasn't like he'd kicked Sandburg out, for Chrissake. Whatever trouble the anthropologist had found was his own fault, not Jim's, and he'd probably still have to go rescue him – just like always.

          Glancing up, he saw Simon enter the bullpen, talking animatedly to a woman he vaguely remembered as the head of another department. He rose, reaching Banks' office just as they paused in the doorway.

          Simon frowned at him, turning back to the woman as she said something, and Jim cleared his throat. "Simon?"

          It took a few minutes, but the woman eventually left, and Banks stepped into his office and seated himself, glowering at Ellison as he followed. "All right, Jim, what was so damned important it just couldn't wait?"

          "Sandburg," the detective growled, scowling at the captain.

          Banks sighed. "He's still missing?"

          Jim responded with a single jerk of his head, and Simon grimaced. "I've already put out the APB. And I've sent the Explorers to go paper the campus with posters of Blair asking anyone who saw him yesterday to call us. Kane is taking the info," he added, nodding to the young African-American detective sitting at his desk in the bullpen, a phone to his ear. "If he finds anything, he'll let me know."

          "Good," Jim grunted, starting to turn toward the door.

          "Did you get anything with, you know, that psychic stuff?"

          The detective hesitated, then shook his head, stepping into the doorway. "No, not a thing."

          "Jim."

          The tone halted Ellison, and he turned to look back, meeting Simon's flinty stare. In spite of himself, the Sentinel's gaze dropped.

          "Close the door," Banks instructed.

          Jim did so, then turned to face the captain, his chin up. "What is it, sir?"

          "You know damn well what!" Simon growled, leaning forward to glare at him. "Tell me what you found."

          "It's nothing, sir, just vague impressions, that's it."

          "Suppose you let me be the judge of that. Now, talk."

          Ellison sighed. "It was a dream. Nothing concrete. Just… fear and confusion."

          Banks leaned back in his chair and studied the detective, his features neutral. "Go on."

          Jim shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "That's really all there was. Like I said, nothing usable."

          "Hell, Jim," Simon snapped, pointing a cigar at him, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you don't want to find the kid!"

          Fury surged through the man. "Yes, I do!"

          "Prove it. Tell me about that dream."

          The detective bit back a snarl, grimacing. "He was trapped… somewhere. He didn't know how he got there or how to get out."

          "Where was 'there'?"

          Jim shrugged. "He didn't– I couldn't tell."

          "He didn't what?"

          Ellison sighed. "He didn't know where he was… exactly."

          "What do you mean, 'exactly'?"

          "Damn it, Simon, it was a _dream!_ " Jim snapped. "It wasn't a conversation. Hell, I'm not even sure it was real! There weren't any images, just feelings – fear, confusion, terror, complete disorientation, panic. If it was Sandburg, he was trapped, and he knew it, but not how to get out. Which means," he added grimly, "that I'll have to find and rescue him."

          "Again."

          Jim glanced at the man, surprised.

          "Isn't that what you were about to add?" Simon asked, leaning forward, his cigar lying forgotten on his desk. "You've always rescued him, isn't that true?"

          Ellison shrugged. "Something like that."

          "All right!" Simon's voice was suddenly hard, and Jim looked up, startled at the fierceness behind the words. "I'm only gonna say this once, so you'd better listen up. You seem to have a damned selective memory about who needs rescuing and who's done it of late, and maybe it's about time to remind you of the truth, which is that Blair's pulled your fat out of the fire at least as often as you've done it for him."

          "Simon–"

          "So now he needs your help," Banks snapped, running right over Jim's efforts to break in. "So get to it, damn it! Because that's what partners do, and next time it might be you who needs him. Is that clear?"

          "Yes," Jim gritted, his teeth aching. "Sir," he added at the captain's glare.

          "Fine," Banks snorted. "But I'm not letting you off the hook for the homicide you're working on. You'll just have to work both. Now get out there and do it!"

          Ellison didn't trust his voice, so he kept silent as he pushed the door open and stepped into the bullpen, where he grabbed his jacket off his chair and headed out the door with a quick stride.


	4. Chapter 4

          "Ahhh!" The explosion and the scream were almost simultaneous, and blood splattered Blair as the man ahead of him folded up and fell. From mid-thigh to waist there was nothing but a gory hole, and even as the soldier hit the ground the anthropologist could tell he was dead. More blood poured out of the body in a spreading pool, and Blair scrambled backward, the ancient fear of contamination driving him.

          John caught him, turning him away from the sight. Blair dropped to his knees and heaved, emptying his stomach in a series of convulsive surges that left him feeling shaken and weak when he finished, but not one whit cleaner.

          "Oh, God," he whispered, swiping his good arm across his burning eyes and refusing to look behind him. _This isn't real, it can't be real. God, please, please tell me this is a nightmare and let me wake up now!_

          "Aw, kid, I'm sorry you had to see that," John rumbled softly, rubbing one hand in comforting circles on Blair's back. "If it helps at all, Darren hardly had time to feel anything before it was over."

          Blair rubbed his fists over his eyes and took a long, deep breath. _Let it go, let it go. Don't carry it with you. Not here. Deal with it later, not now._ For the first time he had an inkling why the veterans who had come home from Vietnam had had delayed stress reactions. He shuddered, then forced himself to his feet.

          "Here," John said, offering him a canteen. "Just take a mouthful and clean your mouth, then spit it out and don't swallow," he advised when Blair gritted his teeth against the roiling of his stomach.

          The anthropologist took a breath and nodded, taking the canteen and following the older man's advice. "What-What was that?" he whispered when finished, handing the canteen back to John, who still had a hand on his shoulder.

          "Bouncing Betty," John answered, and Blair swallowed, fighting another brief but intense battle with his stomach as his mind supplied the images of what the words meant.

          "He missed the tripwire…" John commented softly, letting the words trail off.

          Blair nodded. "What do we do now?" he asked, wishing that he didn't feel so young.

          John shrugged. "If we could, we'd evac him out and send the body home to his family, but since we can't do that, we'll take his dog tags. Best we can do."

          "Right," Blair answered automatically, his fingers going to his own bare throat. No dog tags lay under his questing touch, and he frowned, the horror of the moment before fading under the press of his own questions. "Why can't we evac him out?" he asked slowly as he followed John's lead and moved back down the trail, trying to avoid the blood-stained dirt as they passed the poncho-wrapped body laid off to the side of the path.

          "No radio, remember? And even if we had one, mechanical problems had grounded the Huey before we'd left the firebase," John answered, not glancing back.

          Blair's frown deepened. _How convenient. Or is it? Am I just overreacting?_ He shook his head, keeping a careful eye on the path as he followed the older man. _And why don't I have dog tags? Or a weapon, or a uniform? Why hasn't anyone noticed that I'm different, and for that matter, why hasn't anyone except John really said a word directly to me?_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Sir," Jim nodded stiffly to Banks as he joined Kane Johnson that afternoon in Simon's office. "What've you got?" he asked the younger detective.

          Kane glanced down at his notes. "Most of the calls I got were useless, but I did have one that I think's on the go-and-up. One of Sandburg's students called to say he'd seen Blair walking across the campus around 9:30." He unfolded a map and at the captain's nod, laid it across the desk. "Right around here," he said, tapping the surface.

          Jim leaned over and studied the map with a frown, noting the red "X" marked on one of the paths.

          "Where's the nearest busstop?" he asked, noting how the path led toward the edge of the campus.

          "Right here," Kane said, indicating a spot not too far from the "X."

          Jim found the Anthropology building, then traced a path that led to the "X," and nodded, tapping the bus stop. "He was on his way to our meeting yesterday," he said grimly. "That bus stops right outside the precinct house."

          "Damn," Simon swore softly. "So it looks like he never made it on to that bus."

          "Yeah," Jim answered, fighting a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Somewhere between where that student saw him and the bus stop, something happened. "Did that student say anything else about Sandburg?" he asked Kane. "How he looked, what he said, anything?"

          The young African-American shook his head. "Not really, just that Blair seemed distracted, and didn't say anything, just nodded when he saw the student." He checked his notes. "Blair was frowning a little, and walking at a pretty good pace."

          Jim nodded, swallowing. He wondered if Sandburg had been frowning over their argument, and fought back a flush, not looking at Simon.

          "It's a pretty short distance between where that student saw Sandburg and that bus stop," Simon commented. "Maybe you should run down there and check it out, Jim."

          Ellison restrained a glare at his captain. He was perfectly capable of doing his job without any advice, and his voice was frosty when he replied. "I'll do that, sir. But I think it'd work better to do it at the time Sandburg was there; I'd be more likely to find people who might know something."

          "Good point," Banks answered evenly, then nodded to Kane. "Good work, Johnson. If anyone else calls with anything significant, let us know. Leave the map," he added as the younger detective nodded and started to fold it up. "Jim'll need that."

          "Yes, sir," Kane said, backing to the door. "Good luck, Jim," he offered, escaping as Ellison nodded.

          "How's the homicide case going?" Banks asked.

          Jim caught himself on the edge of a snappy answer, and took a deep breath. Simon was just doing what he usually did – checking on progress. He really wasn't attacking Jim's capabilities. "Not so well," he finally replied. "I spent this morning tracking down the boy's other friends, but those I found don't know anything either. And none of them have a history of drug use. I talked to his professors, but it's the same story. The computer forensics people said they'd be done with Burns' computer this afternoon. I'll look the report over tonight."

          Simon nodded, his brows crooked. "Any news on the drugs' effects?"

          Jim sighed, abruptly feeling very tired. "No. The chemists say it's a 'nightmare of chemical compounds,' but they have no idea what the mixture's supposed to do, except that it was obviously created for a specific purpose."

          "And they have no idea what that purpose is."

          Ellison shook his head. "Not a clue. Steve Burns was obviously in a mind-altered state, and it seems that whatever he experienced while under the drugs, terrified him, but past that point no one can even guess what might have happened."

          "Damn."

          Jim nodded. "I'll let you know if I come up with anything on the computer results."

          "You do that." Simon shook his head. "I want this bastard, Jim. I don't want him running around this city, free to do what he likes with drugs like these."

          "Yes, sir," Jim agreed as he stepped out of the office.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Jim riffled through the report again and sighed. Damn it, as far as he could see there was no discernible pattern to any of the files on Steve Burns' computer that might pertain to his kidnapping and murder. Course work, lots of it, composed most of the folders. He had quite a few saved e-mails – from his parents, a few classmates and professors, and a girl that the detective suspected might've been on the verge of becoming a girlfriend – but none of the messages sounded dangerous, or even remotely suspicious. His online journal sounded innocuous enough when skimmed, and although his e-mail address book listed quite a few names, between Jim's earlier efforts that day, and those of the forensics people, Ellison could already cross off all but one or two of them.

          Bookmarked websites were equally uninspiring – chemistry and other class-related sites, a few game sites, most of which seemed to focus around role-playing with other on-line players, a few weather and travel URLs, and substantial use of music download sites like Napster. Nothing else.

          Ellison tossed the report onto the coffee table facing the couch, and rubbed his face. It was so quiet in the loft the silence made his ears ring, and he rose, turning to tap the power button of the CD player and pressing start for the disc already in the machine. He had sat back down before the music swelled into what he quickly identified as one of Sandburg's new age tapes, and he grimaced.

          Damn, but the loft was empty. When he'd first gotten home he'd enjoyed the silence and being alone, but those feelings had faded during supper. Now he was starting to feel nervous and edgy, and he just hoped he could get to sleep later. Maybe the white noise generator would help.

          He shook his head. It wasn't noise that would keep him up tonight, but silence, and the last thing he needed was a machine that would shut out even more of the world. But it was nice not to have to worry about anyone else in this, his space.

          The music swelled suddenly, then fell to a thread of sound, and he grunted, then reached for the report again, only to drop it and clap his hands over his ears as the music hit a high note and hung there, drilling through his head.

          "Damn!" The word echoed in the room, bouncing back and forth against the walls, the sound sliding down to a bass tone that thrummed through his tightly clasped hands. He bent forward, his shoulders hunched, not daring to free a hand to hit the off button.

          And then, just as suddenly, the music was soft again, the volume normal, and he slowly lifted one hand, then another, then quickly reached over and flicked the power button. The music stopped, and he took a deep breath, leaning back against the couch and trying to force his taut muscles to relax. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled.

          It took a few minutes, but Jim finally sat up and gathered the scattered pages from the floor, stacking them with deliberation, then took a breath, focusing his gaze and his attention on the papers. There _had_ to be something in Steven Burns' life that would lead to his killer; the lengths to which the murderer had gone to create the drug hinted that he'd also chosen the student carefully, and for a specific reason. The clues to that reason must be in the reports Ellison held – somewhere.

          Jim flipped through the report again, stopping to reread the coroner's report on the victim's condition when he was found. There was something there, if he could just figure out how to interpret it. It would be useful to bounce ideas off Blair for this; the anthropologist's viewpoint helped sometimes.

          Burns had been kidnapped, tied down and injected with psychotropic drugs. He had eventually died and the killer had dumped him back in his own car to be found. Jim frowned and reread the report again. What had the killer been doing while Burns was tied down and under the influence of the drugs? He hadn't tortured him, not physically. And the probable side-effects of such drugs, according to the expert, made it likely the boy couldn't have heard his kidnapper once he was under the drug's influence, so talking to him wouldn't have worked either. Had the murderer just watched Burns? That seemed strange. What would there have been to see?

          "It's almost like one of Sandburg's tests," Jim said aloud. "But he never ran a test just one time."

          The meaning of his words seeped in and Jim swallowed, supper suddenly heavy on his stomach.


	5. Chapter 5

          Trotting along the path, the soldiers in front of him, John behind, Blair glanced around at the rich jungle surrounding him and shook his head. Whatever else he felt about this place, one thing was true: it was beautiful. There were similarities to the jungles he had done work in, but there were differences, too. And again, it was like the spirit jungle that Jim and he knew, but different.

          God, he missed Jim. He felt so… vulnerable without the Sentinel at his side. He grimaced. He had dealt with the world, with dangerous situations, too, both before and after he'd met Jim. It wasn't like he needed a babysitter, after all. Besides, recently he might have been safe from danger, but he sure hadn't been safe from Ellison's moods and sniping comments. On the whole, if the current situation weren't so bizarre, he might actually enjoy his escape from the man. He could just imagine Jim's response to what had happened to him: "Sandburg, what kind of trouble did you get yourself into this time?" And that would quickly lead to a shouting match, because, as usual, the detective wouldn't listen to his explanation, or his ideas, but go off on his own, ignoring Blair's input entirely.

          He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, trying to release his building anger at the same time. _Let it go, let it go. Not here, not now_. Anyway, he needed to think about his own situation, and this was the first free time he'd had. Better to take advantage of it before something else happened. He thought back to the coffee shop, frowning.

          Item: the woman he'd met had drugged him, and she and her compatriot had dragged him into a car. She had recognized him, pushed her way into his space. That hinted he hadn't been randomly chosen for whatever plan they'd had. They'd wanted him, Blair Sandburg, for this… whatever it was. But why?

          The anthropologist shook his head. Maybe they'd wanted him, maybe not. Maybe she'd just had some general profile in mind and he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it really didn't matter which answer was correct, since he couldn't use the information anyway.

          Item: John had known him when he'd arrived, without them being introduced. In fact, he was the only person there who really seemed to see Blair at all. And he hadn't seemed to find Sandburg's questions unusual, which, when you considered the fact that everyone else seemed to see the doctoral student as someone who belonged in the situation and with the unit, was pretty damn strange. And John himself didn’t fit the situation either – too old, for one, even though he had a gun and clearly knew how to use it. And he had no dog tags, either, just like Blair.

          Item: He was in Vietnam, in-country with a unit obviously engaged in the Vietnam War. But, at the same time, no matter how authentic the experience felt, it couldn't be real. Not unless he'd picked up an enemy somewhere who had a **hell** of a lot of shamanic or metaphysical power, someone who could actually shift time and space and dump him into that historical period. If he had such an enemy, and it had some sort of revenge or game in mind, he was in more trouble than he was prepared to deal with.

 _Occam's Razor_ , he thought. _The simplest solution is usually the correct solution._ Okay. For the sake of simplicity, then, he would assume this experience wasn't actually real.

          Item: Someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble to convince him that it was. Why that was the case was a question beyond his power to answer for the moment, which left… How? How could he be so convinced that this experience, this place, was real if it wasn't?

          He might have been dumped into a metaphysical scenario which resembled Vietnam. That was possible. But if so, he should be able to influence the situation in his favor. The other option was that he'd been drugged into believing this experience was real. And if that was the case, escape could be much more difficult.

          Or it could be a mixture of both. And how did he get himself out of that?

          Last item: Just because his captors had abducted him successfully didn't necessarily mean they had managed to keep him. For all he knew, the police had found him quickly and he was now lying in some hospital bed, locked in his own mind until his doctors, or he himself, found a way out of this situation.

          But such an elaborate setup as held him now hinted at an equally well-planned abduction. No, he had a strong hunch that he was missing in both senses of the word, and that the bad guys were still in control of the situation.

          Which left Jim still looking for him, and not finding him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Hey, you get the reading done?"

          "Yeah. Meade was better than Geertz, but hey, if you're going to try to get inside another culture's way of thinking, ethnography is one of the best tools you've got, you know?"

          "I don't know. It's just too qualitative for me; give me good quantifiable data to crunch any day and I'll tell you what a society's like."

          "That doesn't get inside the ideas, it only tells you the empirical side, and statistical probabilities are…"

          The students turned toward another building, and Jim shook his head as he followed the sidewalk, trying to take the same general path Sandburg would have two days before. He didn't consider himself a slow or stupid man, but there were times he could swear academics, Blair included, were just plain crazy.

          He remembered Sandburg telling him once that every closed society had its own rules and its own ways of speech that weren't accessible to outsiders. "Restricted codes," the anthropologist had called it. Well, he'd just heard a doozy of an example.

 _This really is Blair's world_ , he thought as he glanced around at the students crossing sidewalks, entering buildings, sitting on the grass and benches, books and notebooks open in their laps. With or without Jim in his life, Blair could slide back into campus life without so much as a ripple. The Sentinel frowned, unsure why that realization disturbed him.

          He paced across the grass, following a path that led roughly toward the bus stop Blair had seemingly been headed for when he'd disappeared. The sunlight was bright, the sky a deep October blue, and a small breeze rustled through the maple tree above him, freeing several leaves to drift past him. He glanced up, appreciating the vibrant fall colors, and watched as a crow flapped past, automatically zooming his sight to watch the bird's muscles shift under its skin.

          Tobacco smoke drifted into his nostrils, and the smell was suddenly overwhelming, flooding his mouth with the taste. His lungs tightened and he wheezed, his eyes watering. Frozen in hyper mode, he couldn't shift his gaze from the crow as it landed on a nearby tree limb, and sudden panic ran through him, prickling his skin with an icy wash of fear at the loss of control.

          "Hey, mister, are you all right?"

          The voice jarred through him, his ears throbbing, and then everything, sight, touch and taste, slammed down to normal, and he reeled backward, catching himself against a tree trunk, solid and stable behind him.

          "Are you okay? You don't look so good."

          Jim blinked, focusing on the speaker with difficulty. A young woman looked back, one hand outstretched to touch his arm, and he shifted away, standing up straight and taking a deep breath.

          "I'm fine," he said, finding a smile somewhere. "I guess I shouldn't have taken that cold medicine on an empty stomach," he added at random, grabbing at something he'd once heard Blair say.

          She smiled, lowering her hand. "Yeah, maybe not. Maybe you ought to consider taking the day off if you feel that bad. Go eat some breakfast or something."

          Jim took another deep breath, glad that the smoker who must have passed him was now out of range. "Yeah, maybe I'll do that. Thanks."

          "No problem," she smiled, then glanced at her watch. "Got to go! Take care."

          "You, too," he answered automatically, watching her head toward a nearby building at a brisk pace. There was a drinking fountain set next to an empty bench not too far away, and he walked over to it, bending to swish water around his mouth and spat. It took several repeats to cleanse his mouth of the tobacco taste, and then he turned, lowering himself onto the bench with a sigh. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his fingers over them, weariness washing through him. That had been close, too close.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Some fifteen minutes later, again following the anthropologist's projected path through campus, the detective turned as someone cleared his throat, looking down at a slightly shorter African-American who stared at him questioningly as he asked, "Are you Mr. Ellison? The cop Blair works with?"

          "Yeah, I am," he answered, trying to keep his tone civil. "Have you seen him recently?"

          "I called in to say I'd seen him on Monday," the young man answered. "I'm Shawn Lincoln, one of Blair's students. He hasn't been found yet?"

          "No," Jim replied heavily. "Could you tell me exactly where you saw him?"

          "Sure," Shawn said, pointing ahead. "I was going to class, just like I am now, and he was walking down this path. He was maybe ten yards down from here, and he was heading someplace in a hurry."

          "Was he alone?"

          "Yeah," the man said slowly. "I think so."

          "You don't sound sure."

          Shawn rubbed his nose. "Because I'm not. There was another TA, a woman, about ten feet behind him. I had her for a class once, so I waved to her. She saw me and frowned, then ignored me." He hesitated. "At the time, I thought she just didn't like seeing an old student of hers; some TAs and professors don't like students, and I thought it was just that. But it caught my interest, so I turned and looked back. She was watching Blair."

          "Watching him how?" Jim questioned, trying to stifle the hope rising in him.

          Shawn glanced up at the detective, his gaze thoughtful. "Like a shark, man. Hungry. But she stayed behind Blair, and I think I'd have to say now that she was careful to do that, like she didn't want him to see her. I thought I was just being paranoid at the time, but now, I wonder."

          Jim took a deep breath. "So do I. Did you see anything else? What direction Sandburg was going?"

          The name earned him a glance, but Shawn shook his head. "Sorry. I didn't want to be late to class, so I turned and left."

          Ellison stared along the path, then looked back at the man. "Can you give me the woman's name and department?"

          "Sure," Shawn answered. "Linda Dixon. I'm not sure which department she's in, she was teaching an interdisciplinary class when I had her. But she has to be in one of the social sciences."

          Jim nodded, scribbling the name in his notebook, then replacing it and his pen in his pocket. "Thanks. You've been a great help."

          "No problem," Shawn said easily. "I just hope Blair's all right. He's a great guy."

          The detective's lips thinned, and he started down the path, hearing the student's footsteps fade off behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

          Bullets suddenly whizzed past, one thudding into a tree trunk next to Blair. He dropped flat on the trail, automatically scrambling for cover. He heard John doing the same, and ahead of him the other soldiers melted into the underbrush with a swiftness and ease Blair couldn't help but envy. Return fire erupted around him, and he tried to pull himself into a smaller ball behind the tree he'd chosen as a shield.

          The firefight was brief but intense, and when the shots petered out the anthropologist looked up at the lieutenant's yell. "Anyone hurt? Sound off!"

          Everyone answered appropriately, and Blair straightened into a seated position, grimacing at the new smudges on his clothes. Between all the mud and plant stains, a lack of a camouflage uniform wasn't a problem anymore. The bloodstains bothered him, though, and he briefly wished he could wash them off. But even if they passed any streams, who knew what lived in the water, and the rest of the unit certainly couldn't spare the time anyway, a conclusion borne out by the lieutenant's next command.

          "Okay, everyone, on your feet, come on, let's double-time it out of here before the next group finds us!"

          "You okay?" the Native American asked the anthropologist.

          "Yeah," Blair answered, brushing his clothes off and then giving it up as a useless gesture.

          "Good," Lonetree said, giving him a keen once over. "Just keep moving," he advised before dropping back to guard the rear again.

          Blair took a breath, trying to settle his racing heart, and started down the trail. _This can't be real. These men aren't real, and neither is this place. I wonder what would happen if I just walked away from all this – would it just vanish?_

          He sighed and broke into a trot to close up the distance between him and the soldier ahead of him. _Maybe it would. But I kind of doubt getting out of this is going to be that simple, and ignoring the rules that seem to work here probably isn't smart. Right now the rule seems to be survival._

          Listening to John's even footsteps behind him, he shook his head. Funny how he didn't mind following the older man's advice, but if he were Jim instead, well, that would be a completely different story.

          John seemed to care about him, and Blair had the feeling that if he had something to offer on the situation, the Native American would listen to him.

          He would give a lot if Jim would listen to him like that, but he didn't, not anymore. And that was new – since Kallini.[1]

          It wasn't that Jim had always followed his suggestions before this summer, but when he hadn't, it was always the response of a thinking partner who trusted Blair to offer his knowledge and expertise to the best of his abilities while leaving Jim free to choose his own responses. That was what had made their partnership work so well, each of them offered their skills freely to the other, but neither tried to dominate the relationship. Sometimes one of them led, sometimes the other, but it was a flexible dance, one that Blair had missed more and more over the past few weeks. Now it seemed that neither of them really listened to the other, and following each other's advice felt like an act of weakness.

 _When did what we have turn into a competition?_ Blair wondered uneasily.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Simon stared at him, shocked. "Four of them?"

          Jim nodded, handing him the folders he held. "Jamie Price, Alan Connor and Greg Eckhart. They all died in the last three months; same scenario as Steven Burns."

          Simon flipped through the folders, then glanced up at the detective. "Why didn't we know about these before?"

          Jim sighed, eyeing the late afternoon sun slanting across the captain's window. "Different precincts. No one connected the dots."

          "Mmm," Simon commented, laying the folders aside. "Tell me about them."

          The Sentinel picked up the folders, flipping the first one open. "Alan Connor. Student at Nez Percé Community College, last seen by his boyfriend on Monday afternoon, August 8th. He was found on August 13th by an alert garbageman who noticed a body in one of his bins. Coroner estimated Connor had been dead for at least twenty-four hours, maybe a little more."

          "Which would make it Friday when he died," Simon mused. "Same MO?"

          Jim nodded. "Lots of sweat, no physical injury, high adrenaline and exhaustion, traces of a psychotropic drug in his system and a puncture on his left arm."

          "Go on."

          "Jamie Price. New grad student at Rainier. Found three weeks after Connor, September 5th, Friday, over in the North Cannery neighborhood. Last seen Monday September 1st. Same MO, right down to the location of the puncture."

          Simon sighed, rolling a cigar between his palms. "And the third?"

          Jim laid the second folder aside and flipped open the third. "Greg Eckhart. Drugstore employee, found in his parked car on Friday Sept 15th. Last seen Monday September 11th. Same MO."

          "And then our Steven Burns. Sounds like a pattern," Simon said heavily, putting down the cigar. "All young men, too."

          Jim nodded, dropping into a seat across from the captain. "Yeah, all between twenty-three and thirty-three. The killer picks them up on Monday, hooks them up, and dumps them on Friday."

          "Three students, one who wasn't," Banks commented. "What the hell is he doing? We need a psych profile on this guy; haul in the psychiatrist."

          "Already did," Ellison answered, his fingers drumming on his knee. "The papers are on her desk, she says she'll deliver in a day or two."

          Simon nodded. "Good. I hope that's soon enough. We need to get this nutcase off the streets and into a padded cell where he belongs."

          "The sooner the better," Jim agreed, shifting restlessly.

          "What's the news on Sandburg?" Banks asked, picking his cigar up and placing it between his lips.

          The detective shrugged. "I traced his path this morning, found a coffee shop where an employee remembered seeing him with a woman. Says he left without her, but she followed him out."

          "Where's the bus stop?" the captain asked softly.

          Jim exhaled, staring past Simon at his bookcase. "Within forty feet of the shop."

          "So whatever happened, happened then – between the coffee shop and the bus stop," Banks commented, his chest tightening a little at the Sentinel's nod. "Who was the woman?"

          "Probably Linda Dixon, a TA in the Humanities department," Ellison answered, still not looking at him. "I talked to the student who saw Blair on Monday, and he saw Dixon following Sandburg through campus. If he's right, she might've followed him into the shop and gotten him to drink something, and then–"

          "Grabbed him when he walked out," Simon mused, noting the small muscle jerking in the Sentinel's jaw. "Do we have anything else on her?"

          "I checked her out," the detective replied. "No parents or other family members in the area, and no real friends. Her attendance at Rainier started dropping around mid-summer, and she didn't come back this semester. She's moved from the address her department has listed for her, but her mail's being forwarded to an apartment. She wasn't there, but I'll keep an eye on it."

          "You do that," Simon ordered. "I don't know what's going on with this, but I don't like it. I'll put out an APB on her, just in case she doesn't come back, and put a stakeout on her place."

          "Thanks," Jim said softly.

          "Hey," Banks answered, "Sandburg's my friend, too. I don't want anything to happen to him. And by the way, Jim," he added as the detective abruptly stood, turning toward the door, "good work on the homicide case. Really good."

          "Thanks, Captain," Jim said, glancing back from the doorway. "Just doing my job." _And I did it all without Sandburg, too. So much for needing a partner_.

          "Hey," Simon called, waving his cigar as Jim stepped over the threshold, "care to join me for supper when we get off? I was thinking about grabbing a steak at Traildust."

          "Sounds good," Ellison answered, his smile widening. "Why don't I meet you there around six."

          "I'll be there," Banks promised him.

  


[1] See previous story in timeline, "Only a Stone's Throw," in _Sensory Overload #6_.


	7. Chapter 7

          "Take a break, everyone." The lieutenant's voice was low and weary, and Blair halted, bending over, hands on his knees, gasping. _We aren't going to make it_ , he thought, then pushed the words out of his mind, concentrating on breathing instead.

          God, but he was tired. How long had they been running, anyway? The only thing he had to measure time with was the sun, which seemed to take far too many hours to find its place on the horizon. Long bars of sunlight and shadow stretched over him, the edge of evening dulling their brightness and bringing with them a hint of coolness.

          They had run, and hidden, and run again, the unceasing rhythm marking their progress until Blair was sure he couldn't move another step. He had lost count of the bullets that had whined by him, spurring the group on after every too-short rest. He had watched a man die, coughing his life out on the punji stakes in a pit, seen another fall victim to a snake whose strike was too swift to see, and watched a third go down with a bullet, blood and brains spraying the anthropologist before he could duck backward. By then he was just too tired to throw up, and there was nothing left in his stomach to purge anyway.

 _How're we ever going to find some place we can set up camp?_ he wondered. _They're just too close on our heels…_

          "Okay, everyone, I remember this part of the trail," the sergeant growled from behind them. "Around this curve should be a hill, and buried behind some boulders is a cave we can use tonight."

          "What the–?" Blair muttered as he rounded the bend in the path, then halted to stare.

          "What's wrong?" John asked, stopping beside him.

          "Jungles of this type don't have cliffs like this," Blair answered, his gaze never shifting from the steep-sided hill fronting them. "Or caves."

          "Go with it, Sandburg," John advised, squeezing his shoulder. "Whether it's what you expect or not, take advantage of it."

          The anthropologist looked at him, then smiled. "You're right. It doesn't matter if it can't be here or not, as long as we can use it."

          "That's it," Lonetree approved. "Just seize the moment and run with it. You're good at that."

          Blair nodded, then blinked. "Wait a minute. How'd you know I'm–?"

          But John was already walking toward the boulders, and Sandburg frowned after him, then followed, adding another question to his growing mental list.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Jim stepped inside the steakhouse and paused, staring across the wide floor, crowded and humming with people. Across the expanse he saw Simon wave, and raised a hand to him, making his way through the many tables, his mouth watering at the scents. Briefly, he wished that Blair was with him, then forced the thought away. This was his night, and by God, he was going to enjoy himself, without the observer and his nagging advice.

          "Hey," the captain said when Ellison neared him, "ready for a good, thick steak?"

          "Count me in," Jim assured him, swinging into the seat across from Banks and glancing up when a waitress laid another menu on the table, accepting it with a nod.

          "Drinks?" she asked, posing with a pad and pencil.

          "Yeah," Simon rumbled, "whatever you've got on tap for me."

          "Same here," Jim agreed, setting his teeth at the sharp glance the captain sent him.

          "Two beers coming up," the waitress said, scribbling. "And I'll be back in a few minutes for your orders."

          Banks made sure she was out of earshot before he looked back at Ellison, frowning. "Jim, you sure that's wise? I thought you'd sworn off alcohol. Sandburg said–"

          "Lay off, Simon. It's my decision, not Sandburg's, and right now I want a drink."

          The captain took a careful breath, then nodded. "Whatever you say, Jim." _If he wants to play with fire, let him._

          "I do say," the Sentinel answered, the words clipped. He reached for the foaming mug the waitress set before him and drank thirstily.

          Banks couldn't repress his sigh, and Jim's eyes narrowed. "What? Afraid I've lost my edge? I _can_ function on my own, without Sandburg."

 _That's what he said to Joel, too_ , the captain mused, then shrugged. "Can you, Jim? You tell me," he challenged. "You're the Sentinel."

          Jim stared at him, then turned away from the question, drinking a few more swallows before putting the mug down.

          Simon took a breath, not liking the feeling crawling up his spine. Out on the streets that prickling chill always presaged mayhem, and he fervently hoped he was wrong about this situation.

          "Are you ready to order?" the waitress interrupted.

          Banks turned to her with relief, and for a few moments there was peace as the two men sketched out what they wanted.

          Jim watched her leave, then turned to Simon, who eyed him warily, not liking the predatory gleam in his detective's eyes. "See that wall over there?" the Sentinel asked, nodding to the far end of the room, where a long mirror backed a bar. "I'm gonna show you just how well I can deal with this Sentinel stuff now."

          "Jim, no, I don't think–"

          "This was something I did a couple days ago. I'll use a mirror to bounce my sight up to a second floor. I'll tell you what the people directly over us look like. It worked then, and it'll work now."

          "If this is what you and Sandburg were arguing about," Simon pointed out, trying to keep his voice calm, "I remember him saying that it was chance it worked, and chance isn't something to depend on, Jim."

          Ellison shrugged, staring across the room with an intent gaze that Simon recognized.

          "Damn it, Jim, don't do this!" Banks saw the moment it went wrong, the sudden squint and frown, the slight, almost minuscule jerk of the head, and then the glaze that folded over his friend's expression.

          "Oh, damn," Banks swore, leaning toward the detective. "Come on, Jim, snap out of it. Don't do this to me, Ellison. What the hell do I know about breaking a zone-out!" _And Blair makes it look so easy…_

          He hesitated, then, when there was no response from the Sentinel, he gritted his teeth and reached over to slap the man's shoulder. "Jim, do you hear me? Jim?"

          Nothing. The fixed stare didn't waver, and Simon swallowed, a chill creeping down his spine. What would happen if Ellison didn't come back from a zone-out? He didn't remember Blair ever mentioning it, but it had to be important or a Sentinel wouldn't have a partner to begin with.

          He lifted his hand to slap the man, then hesitated, trying to recall the times he'd seen Sandburg do this kind of thing. _Change the sense being used_. Grabbing one of the bottles of steak sauce, he quickly unscrewed the lid and poured some onto his fingers, then reached across and smeared it under Ellison's nose, holding his breath.

          Jim blinked.

          "That's it, come on, Ellison!" Simon cajoled, hunching forward over the table.

          The stare wavered, then stilled. Banks grabbed his water glass, stood and, bracing himself on the table, poured the icy draught straight into Jim's lap.

          The Sentinel shot to his feet, his eyes wide and startled, his strangled yelp sounding remarkably like a dog whose tail had been trampled on.

          Simon dropped back into his seat, his legs abruptly too weak to hold him. Relief crested and then shifted. "Just what the _hell_ do you think you're doing!" he ground out as Ellison grabbed both their napkins and pressed the wadded mass to the afflicted area, trying to soak up some of the excess water. Unfortunately for him, that meant pressing the icy cloth of his pants against a now very sensitive organ, and he gritted his teeth against the discomfort.

          "Do you have any idea how close that was, mister?" Banks snapped, staring at his detective. "That was sheer stupidity, and you know it!"

          Jim didn't look at him, carefully sitting down on the edge of his chair. "Thanks," he muttered.

          "'Thanks'?" Simon gritted. " _'Thanks'?_ Damn it, Jim, do you have any idea what could've happened? What almost _did_ happen? How the hell you can be so careless with–"

          "Excuse me, but is there a problem here?"

          Both men looked up, and Simon blinked at the man addressing them, his gaze shifting to the nametag that read "Manager." Abruptly he noticed the stillness encircling them and looked around, finding himself and Jim the focus of a number of fascinated gazes. Outside their immediate area the noise of the steakhouse continued unabated, but in the space surrounding the two of them the silence was intense. Embarrassment burned through him, and he was suddenly, fervently glad that he was a dark-skinned African-American, making his reaction difficult to read.

          He took a breath, abruptly aware of the steak sauce still wet on his fingers, of the smear under Jim's nose, and of the crumpled wetness of the Sentinel's pants, even hidden under the table. "No," he answered curtly, "no problem."

          The man nodded, his gaze still wary. "Can I get you anything?"

          Simon sighed, his anger draining into weariness. "No, no, we're fine, thanks."

          The manager nodded, then paced off, but the police captain felt his gaze on them, and sighed again. "Hand me one of those towels," he ordered, accepting it from the very quiet Sentinel and using it to scrub his hands. "And clean your face," he added.

          Around them a quiet buzz rose, and Banks' shoulders dropped as the crowd's attention shifted. "Jim–"

          "Leave it, Simon." The Sentinel's voice was weary, and the captain looked across at him, frowning.

          "I can't, Jim," he answered. "Without Sandburg, you're vulnerable, and you can't afford not to realize that fact. I'm not trained to help you, and we both know how close you were to staying zoned out." He took a breath. "I don't know what that means, but I'm sure it's not good."

          Ellison used the wet part of a towel to scrub under his nose again, and Simon grimaced, knowing that, even clean, the smell would probably still linger under the Sentinel's particularly sensitive nose.

          "No," Jim agreed, dropping the towel on the table and rubbing his fingers over his eyes, "it's not." He sighed, his shoulders dropping. "God, I wish Blair was here."

          It was the first time in weeks that the detective's voice sounded normal, and Banks inhaled and held the breath for a long moment, his shoulders relaxing a little. "Me, too," he agreed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Jim wearily stripped down to his briefs and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up around his neck and relaxing into the familiar warmth. He stared through the darkness of his room, the emptiness in the loft galvanizing an ache in his soul that he had hardly noticed before. Now, though…

          Tonight had forced him to face himself, and the image in the mirror wasn't very flattering. Abusing his senses had been both stupid and dangerous, and now, alone and no longer able to hide behind the noise in the steakhouse, or his own exhaustion, he took a deep breath. Unlike Simon, he had a pretty good idea about what happened to a Sentinel who couldn't be recalled from a zone-out. The longer the incident, the more unstable his senses remained afterward, and if it continued long enough, Blair had warned him once that the effect was similar to prolonged and intense sensory deprivation. It only went downhill from there, the end result a gradual shutdown of his autonomic functions, and eventually death.

          He had no desire to try anything like that experiment again, and the emptiness of the loft only drove home his own loneliness, so long denied.

          He missed Sandburg. Granted, they still had some issues to work out. He was pretty sure the anthropologist had been going overboard with his advice of late, but that was no excuse for his own steadfast rejection of it. _I swear, Chief, when this is over and you're home again, we're going to sit down and talk. And this time, I promise, I'll listen._

          Because both Simon and Joel, and even Sandburg, were right – a Sentinel couldn't go it alone. The last few days had made that abundantly clear.

          Reaching up, he crossed his arms behind his head and sighed. Another obvious fact was that his control of his senses had been slipping ever since Blair had disappeared. Normally, he functioned well enough that the anthropologist didn't have to stay with him all the time, but clearly something was wrong. Blair would probably have a field day figuring out why when he got back, but all Jim cared about right now was the result, and since he couldn't magically produce Sandburg on demand, he would have to be especially careful with himself until his friend came home.

          And that brought home the other issue that he'd been resolutely ignoring: Blair might well be a victim of the very murderer he was tracking. The anthropologist's own terror and bewilderment made the inference easy, as did the fact that he'd been abducted on a Monday. Which meant Sandburg was probably lying somewhere out there with a needle in his arm, and psychotropic drugs running wild through his system, suffering through some sort of terrifying nightmare. And Friday he would die.

          Jim had that long to find the grad student, which left him all of Thursday and some of Friday, and every hour that passed lessened Blair's chances of survival.

          _If_ he had been abducted by the killer.

          Jim shifted restlessly, suppressing his urge to throw off the covers and bolt from the loft. Racing to the precinct to search out more clues to his partner's disappearance wouldn't help. The only clue he had was Linda Dixon, and Simon already had a team staked out at her place. Also, he knew that any more excitement tonight might well send one or more of his senses skyrocketing out of control. And with all due respect to Simon, who had done a great job for not knowing what he was doing, Jim really didn't want to have to trust himself again to an untrained friend, or worse yet, a stranger.

          Besides, there were more ways than one to find Blair. His friend was a shaman, and as far as Jim could tell, a damn good one. If Ellison actively tried to use their link, maybe Sandburg could reach him.

          Of course, his Guide was drugged.

          Jim frowned. Psychotropic compounds confused one's perception of reality, and that might make it impossible for Blair to act in any metaphysical fashion. Still, it couldn't hurt to try. After all, they had managed to reach each other in some fashion that first night. Maybe if Jim was open to listening, that might help.

          So he removed his arms from behind his head, lying instead as relaxed as he could, his arms at his sides. Closing his eyes, he thought about Blair, searching backward through their many shared experiences for images he could use to reach the man.

          The world faded into the background as he focused on his friend, reaching outward and inward, striving with a sense he couldn't name to touch something he wasn't even sure was there.

 _We aren't going to make it_. Even as a thought the words were slurred with exhaustion, and the overwhelming fatigue that dropped over the Sentinel forced his shoulders to relax into the pillows, his breathing slowing, dragging against the shared weariness.

          And then the contact, if it was that, was gone, and Jim's mind was his own again. Opening his eyes, he stared up at the ceiling, worry settling into his bones.

          Damn, but Sandburg was tired. _No, not tired_ , Jim corrected himself, _completely_ _exhausted_.

          That fit the description of the previous victims of the killer, too, a similarity which did nothing for Jim's peace of mind.


	8. Chapter 8

          "So tell me about yourself," John requested, settling down beside Blair at the mouth of the cave. Inside the anthropologist could hear ponchos rustle, then still, and he smiled wearily, wishing he could join the men inside. But the lieutenant had assigned him first watch, and he couldn't very well not perform it, particularly when all their lives might depend on his vigilance. Their position was secure only as long as someone was on the lookout, and right now that someone happened to be him. The irony of performing watch in a place that couldn't be real, to protect men who were most likely imaginary, against an enemy he'd never even seen, didn't escape him. He sighed.

          _Rules_ , Blair reminded himself. _For now, just follow the rules._

          At least first watch was only about two hours, and then he could get some sleep, too. But then again, how could he sleep in a place that wasn't real? He wasn't sure how that could or would work, and it was possible the entire situation would shift if he slipped into an altered state like sleep. No, better to stay awake, at least for now.

          "So tell me about yourself," John repeated, and Blair startled slightly, turning to stare at the man.

          "I think that's my line, actually," he answered, his focus narrowing on John as the ever-present questions rolled through him. "I mean, you seem to know more about what's going on here than I do."

          John blinked at him. "I've been here longer."

          "Where is here?" Blair asked, leaning forward and ignoring the twinge in his shoulder with the movement. "And don't say Vietnam," he warned as the Native opened his mouth, "because we both know that just ain't so."

          John studied him for a moment. "Where do you think you are?"

          Blair shrugged, remembering his shoulder too late and gritting his teeth at the surge of pain. "Not where we seem to be," he muttered. "And I'm not even sure why I'm bothering to ask you," he commented, frustration roiling through him. "Chances are you're no more real than this whole situation, but you're not like the others."

          "Why not?" the Native American asked calmly.

          "What am I wearing?" Blair shot back.

          "You need me to tell you that?"

          Sandburg's eyes narrowed. "Come on, man, stop trying to change the subject. What am I wearing?"

          The older man's features were unreadable, but Blair saw the small sag of his shoulders. "Jeans and a long-sleeve tee-shirt, smudged with mud, blood and plant sap," he answered succinctly. "And before you ask, you're not carrying a gun and you have no dog tags."

          The elation that shook through the anthropologist was brief, quickly sapped by his exhaustion, and he sighed. "I knew you weren't like the rest of them. But you're not like me either."

          The words weren't a question, but John shook his head.

          "Then who are you? And why are you here? What's going on? How can–?"

          "Sandburg!"

          The bark halted the questions, and Blair blinked at the man. "What?"

          The Native shook his head, a small smile touching his lips. "You always like this?"

          "Hey," Sandburg said wryly, leaning back against the cave wall, "sometimes I'm even worse. Jim would say–" He broke off, shaking his head.

          "Jim's a friend?"

          Blair opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. "Uh-uh, man. First you answer some questions, then we'll negotiate mine. Why are you here?"

          John shrugged. "Fair enough. I'm here because you are."

          "Huh?"

          The older man smiled. "I'm here because you're here."

          Blair studied John for a long moment, pushing his own weariness aside with an effort. "Could you maybe explain that a little more? I mean, I appreciate the attention, but I don't know you."

          If Blair hadn't been watching closely, he might've missed the flicker of hurt that passed through John's eyes. "Let's just say that I'm a friend from a long time ago and leave it at that," the Native answered after a moment.

          "But–"

          "Does it really matter?" he asked evenly. "I'm here to help you as much as I can, and to keep you alive. Isn't that enough?"

          "Sure," Blair answered thoughtfully. "I never turn down help, or friendship, but usually I know why it exists in the first place." He paused, studying the man with all the intensity he could bring to bear. "I just wish I knew why you seem so familiar, that's all," he commented. "It's been bugging me ever since I got here, but I could swear I've never met you."

          John hiked an eyebrow at him, a glimmer of a smile touching his lips.

          The grad student shook his head. "I'll let it go, for now."

          "Good," the older man said. "Now, tell me about yourself."

          Blair shrugged, wondering why the Native would ask such a question about someone he supposedly knew, but he knew he wouldn't get an answer if he asked. "Not much to tell. I'm an anthropologist, working on my doctorate at Rainier University in Cascade, Washington. That about sums up my life."

          "Who's Jim?"

          "Just a friend," Sandburg answered evasively. "I'm studying closed societies and I work as an observer to the Cascade police. Jim's sort of my focus."

          Memories flashed through his mind – being forced into a helicopter at gunpoint, an elevator plunging several stories, a blowtorch flame edging closer and closer to his bound hands, talking Jim, blind from exposure to Golden, through a meet with drug dealers, standing beside Incacha in the spirit jungle[1]… but they died as John stared at him, shock written across his features. "What?" Blair asked, frowning.

          The Native shook his head, looking away. John looked a little white around the lips and the anthropologist stared at him, a sudden suspicion blossoming. "Oh, crap," he whispered. "You can read my mind, can't you?" John didn't look at him, but his shrug was half-hearted, his lips tight, and Blair sighed. "Oh, man. Does this have something to do with whatever relationship we seem to have that I don't remember?"

          Lonetree took another breath, then glanced back at him, his gaze calm again. "Of course not. And of course I can't read your mind, Sandburg – that's impossible."

          Blair sighed again, fighting the urge to yawn. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that impossible isn't a lot of the time. And you know, you're really a lousy liar. You can, can't you?"

          John studied him, his features impassive, then he grimaced. "No." He held up his hand when the anthropologist opened his mouth. "I can't read your mind, but when you remember images as vivid as those, I can pick up on them."

          "Huh," Blair commented, staring at him. "It's this space, isn't it? It makes that kind of thing easier."

          The Native shrugged. "To some degree, yes."

          "But that's not all of it, is it?" Sandburg asked intently.

          "It's all you're going to get," John answered with finality.

 _Rats._ "Oh, well," Blair replied, his smile feeling strange. "It was worth a try."

          Lonetree shook his head, his lips quirking. "You're something else, you know that?"

          "Yep," the anthropologist agreed, wondering at his own ease with the man, "that's me – unique, exceptional… and humble."

          "I can see that," John agreed dryly. "And I can also see that you're anything but a simple observer to this Jim guy. So, tell me about it."

          All Blair's laughter died and he studied the Native for a long moment. "If I tell you that, John, you hold my life in your hands. And Jim's, too."

          Lonetree shrugged, his gaze holding Blair's. "I already do. So trust me with this."

          The anthropologist took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Strange. Habit and well-ingrained wariness warned him not to share, but trust and some other emotion tugged at him and he felt old limits easing under their urge. But this was Jim's life at stake, and he'd had old friends turn up before with agendas that had almost killed the two of them. He couldn't afford to trust someone he just didn't know in a situation he didn't understand.

          He started to shake his head, and John leaned forward and slid a hand under Sandburg's chin, holding his gaze.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "We think it's him," Simon said heavily, his gaze on the Sentinel. "Forensics says the fire looks like deliberate arson, and the victim was unconscious before the car started to burn. All the doors were welded shut; he couldn't have escaped even if he'd been awake."

          "No." Jim shook his head and kept shaking it. "No, Simon. Blair's not dead; I'd know if he was dead."

          He heard Joel's soft intake of breath. "Are you sure, Jim?" the man asked, his words even. "The way you've both been arguing, maybe you couldn't tell any more."

          "No!" Jim paced the captain's office, nervous stress driving the move. "No, I swear to you, I'd know." His gaze swept from one man to the other, reading the skepticism in their stances. Wherever Blair was now, did he doubt Jim, too? The thought made him wince. "I want to see the body," he said, halting to stare at them.

          "Jim, I don't think–"

          "The body," he asserted coldly, opening the office door. "Now, Simon."

          The bullpen was quiet as they strode through it, and no one met the Sentinel's eyes. He could feel the ready sympathy waiting for him, but refused to accept it. Blair wasn't dead.

 _That's right, he's not dead, and you know it because he's the next victim for the murderer you're tracking._ The irony of the belief didn't escape him, but he ignored it, set on proving its truth.

          Minutes later he pushed through the entrance to the morgue, halting at the reception desk. Simon stepped up, his ready authority catching the attention of the attendant. "We need to see the body of Blair Sandburg," the captain stated, ignoring the angry glance Jim cast him.

          "Right this way," she said after checking the paper Banks handed her. Rising, she led them down a short corridor and unlocked a door, reaching inside to flip on a light as she pushed it open.

          Cold air curled out to meet them, laced with the odors of blood and chemicals. Underlying that mélange was the unmistakable smell of decomposing tissue, rendered anonymous by fire and time, and Jim swallowed, belatedly trying to turn down the dial before the scent worked its way into his sinuses, there to linger for the rest of the day.

          Ellison saw Simon swallow hard as they stepped into the large room, and the bones in Joel's face stood out starkly.

          Three metal tables stood in a neat row, sheets covering the bodies. The bright overhead lights reflected off the burnished surfaces, and Jim blinked, looking away as the glitter started to pulse. Simon's fingers closed around his wrist, and the Sentinel automatically reached to steady himself on the familiar heartbeat, only to find that familiarity was not enough and he couldn't find space within the rhythm for himself to stand. Every time he thought he'd found his footing, the deep, heavy beat made the room ring, and he twisted out of the captain's grasp, reaching to lean on the doorway instead. The wall under his fingers was cool, and he focused on that, using the touch to limit the echoes around him, narrowing the sensory band to a width he could handle.

          It only took a few seconds, and the young woman had halted beside one of the bodies when he blinked the room back into focus. Stepping carefully over the threshold, he joined the two captains, ignoring Banks' worried stare as he halted at the foot of the table where the attendant stood. A wolf stood a few paces away, but padded off when he looked at it, vanishing through the wall on the other side of the room.

          "Blair Sandburg," the attendant stated, indicating the covered body with a gesture, then when Jim stepped forward, hand outreached to grasp the sheet, she added, "Ah, sir, I would strongly advise against viewing the body. Please believe me when I tell you that every means of identification we have available has been used, and to the best of our knowledge the body has been correctly identified."

          "It's not a 'body'," the Sentinel growled, his fingers closing over the sheet. "And it's not Blair, either," he added, yanking the material back.

          The next few moments were a blank until he found himself in the men's bathroom, throwing up. Finished at last, he straightened up, his knees cold against the tiled floor, hearing Joel and Simons' worried breathing outside his stall. His mind tried to bring up an image of what he'd seen, but the painful roiling of his stomach intensified and he gave up the attempt. _Oh, God, Blair, no, no, no. This can't be real, that can't be Blair–_

          Faintly, a whisper from another time, another place threaded through him, and he focused on it, hanging on with all his strength. _This isn't real, it can't be real; oh, God, please, please tell me this is a nightmare and let me wake up now!_

          Sandburg's panic iced his stomach, forcing it into a hard knot, and he took a difficult breath, fighting to reach across the desperate denial he found in his own soul to the like emotion in his friend's. The horror bubbling through him waned and was gone, leaving him only his own reaction to the sight he could not – dared not – remember and the certainty that he was right in his rejection of everyone's surety.

          The body was not Blair's.

          He knew that, in his soul, in his heart, in his gut. Sandburg was somewhere else, caught in a nightmare not of his own making, and it was Jim's job to find him and drag him out of it, one way or the other. And to do that he had to find the murderer, who in turn would lead him to Blair.

_And if he doesn't?_

          He turned his back on the traitorous whisper, taking a deep breath and trying to ground himself in his own belief. Blair was alive, at least for the moment, and finding the murderer would lead the detective to him. That was all there was to it.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Blair started, falling back against the cave wall, staring at John as the man sat up straight, folding his hands in his lap. The anthropologist studied him, trying to capture that moment when Lonetree had touched him and failing. He knew that _something_ had happened between them, and a warm surety in his stomach told him to trust the man, but he fought it back and stared at the Native.

          "I don't trust that easy," he commented, trying to pull up anger at the invasion and finding it hard.

          "I didn't really expect you to," John answered, meeting his gaze. "But you wanted to know about me, so I told you."

          Sandburg frowned at him. "But–"

          "You'll remember when you're out of here, back in your normal life."

          The anthropologist felt his eyebrows lifting. "How did you–?" He broke off and shook his head. "I'm not used to someone slipping by me like that. Why should I trust you? Emotions can be manipulated."

          "And it seems you should know," John nodded. "But I think you also know what that kind of coercion feels like, and that's not what I did." He shifted, and for the first time Blair had the sense that he was uncomfortable in the situation. "I wouldn't do that to you. I just… answered you."

          Blair studied him, then leaned back and closed his eyes, narrowing his focus on the touch of John's hand under his chin and what had happened next.

          A bright shaft of thought, wrapped up in the warmth of promises, shared visions, empathy, and affection. The Guide frowned, seeking deeper.

          "No."

          Blair blinked out of his reverie, finding John's hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "No," the Native repeated, withdrawing his hand. "Blair, please. You can break through my block, that's obvious, but I'm asking you not to, not yet. Not until you're out of here. Can't you trust me that far? Please?"

          Blair took a breath, sighing it out through his teeth. His curiosity itched, but he couldn't turn down the open plea in the man's eyes. Besides, he didn't really need the information in the thought to know that he could trust John – the "feel" told him that. For the rest, he could wait. Or at least he hoped he could.

          "All right," he agreed. "But I'll tell you this, if it looks like I'm going to die here, I want to know what it is you're not telling me before that happens."

          "You're not going to die here," the Native said, the words a flat edict that made Blair's lips curve. "You hear me?"

          "Oh, yeah," he answered, the cave wall cool against his back, "I hear you. Jim could tell you I'm not good about following orders, but I think I can make an exception in your case."

          John shook his head, a wry smile tugging him out of the sober fierceness of his last comment. "Glad to hear it. So, tell me about Jim."

          Blair hesitated, then smiled at him, surrendering to the feel of the moment and the man. "Well, it all started when a girlfriend of mine faxed me some hospital records…"

 

[1] Previous story in timeline, "Only a Stone's Throw," in _Sensory Overload #6_.


	9. Chapter 9

          "Where the hell is he?" Jim thundered, leaning over Linda Dixon until she shrank back, huddling into the straight-backed chair set at one end of the table.

          "I– I can't tell you," she protested. "Randy– He'll hate me!"

          Jim jerked away, prowling along the mirror that made up one wall of the interrogation room. Grabbing a chair, he flung it across the space as he started toward her again, the resulting crash making her cringe.

          "Lady, if you don't tell me where my partner is, so help me–!"

          Simon burst through the door, grasping the Sentinel's shoulder. "Jim! Jim, calm down! Now, miss, I can only hold him off for a little," Banks said over his shoulder, forcing the detective to back a step. "I suggest you tell us what we need to know before I can't control him anymore!"

          Jim took his cue and tossed Simon aside, advancing on the woman with a swift stride, his scowl fierce as he threw another chair aside.

          She watched him approach, her eyes huge, and finally broke. "All right! All right! I'll tell you!"

          "About time," Jim growled, taking another step toward her for good measure.

          "Jim, back off!"

          Ellison didn't have to pretend the reluctance that made his obedience slow. He took one step backward. His gaze flicked to the clock and he swore under his breath – 2 p.m.

          But it was Thursday, he reassured himself, not Friday. Blair should still be alive, and if the woman's information was accurate, he would be safe by sunset.

          "Come on." Simon hustled Ellison out of the room after noting down the woman's information. "Damn, Jim," he said when the door had closed behind them, "for a minute there I wasn't sure you were acting!"

          "I wasn't." Anger still roiled through the detective, and he didn't look at Banks, feeling the captain's sharp gaze.

          "Jim…" Simon took a deep breath, loosening his grip on the other man's arm when they reached the viewing room behind the mirror, deserted except for Joel, who turned to watch them enter. "Jim, what you were saying about Blair back there – he's dead. Linda Dixon's info is just going to show us where to find his kidnapper, but the kid… he's not coming back. You know that, don't you?"

          Jim sighed, the open sorrow in Banks' voice making his throat tight, and his anger died into the taut thread of tension he'd been living with since the evening before. "He's not dead, Simon." He held up a hand when Banks and Taggert tried to speak, the gesture halting them mid-word. "I don't have any proof," he added tiredly, "but I know where Sandburg is, and he's _not_ in that morgue. The serial killer has him, and if what Dixon told Simon is true, we'll find Blair and the murderer there. So let's go." He turned to leave, hearing the two of them fall into step behind him.

          "I hope you're right, Jim," Simon said, the words very low. "I really do."

 _So do I_ , Jim thought as he led the way into the elevator, punching the number of the parking lot.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The building was small, almost neat, its walls white in the setting sun. A smooth carpet of grass stretched to the curb on all sides, broken by a few trees, their leaves many-hued in the October sunlight. The traffic was light, the street quiet, and the residential houses that sat a half-block down from the building were clearly those of a middle-class neighborhood.

          It wasn't at all what Jim had expected to find as a setting for a serial killer, and he and the two captains exchanged uneasy glances.

          "You sure this is the right address?" Simon asked.

          Joel glanced at his notes, then at the map he held in his lap and nodded. "This is it."

          "Weird," Banks muttered, unsnapping his seat belt and opening the door.

          "You know something else?" Taggert mused as the three of them started toward the building. "There's no windows in that place."

          Jim and Simon glanced at him, then back at the building. "You're right," Banks agreed, and Jim felt the restrained shiver that shook through the man.

          For himself, the detective stared at the walls, then tentatively expanded his hearing.

          Two men were arguing down the block, and their voices echoed sharply through the Sentinel's head until he managed to turn his attention away from it, trying to focus on the building ahead of them.

          Someone was playing basketball in a nearby driveway, and the bounce of the ball against the concrete stabbed through him in waves. A child crashed his bike somewhere and his resulting wail forced Jim to cringe. A car honked, the sound spiraling up the scale, and he clapped his hands over his ears, halting in his tracks as things began to spiral out of his control.

          A bird trilled, the high notes meeting in the middle of his head and hanging there, drilling. Somebody sneezed down the street, and the Sentinel jerked, staggering at the impact. A gate swung open, the squeak of its hinges like fingernails on a chalkboard. A glass dropped, shattering on someone's floor. A dog barked, setting off several others. Keys jangled in someone's hand, dog food rattled in a bowl, a cat yowled. Dogs, cats, cars, phones, birds, children, bikes–

          Blair's heartbeat.

          Faint at first, the sound grew until it drowned out the rest of the chaos, and Jim relaxed into it, curling into the space between heartbeats where he could rest, reveling in the familiarity and the solid security that wrapped around him.

          He was safe, and here, at last, he could think even while he listened, something he realized he hadn't been able to do for what felt like a long time, but which had, in fact, been only days.

          Grounding himself in Blair's heartbeat, he expanded his hearing, a little at a time, finding one other heartbeat besides Sandburg's. There were other noises, too, but he could feel his control wavering again, and knew that he shouldn't push. After days of living solo, even the presence of his Guide couldn't ease the strain immediately. So, letting the sound die down to a comfortable background murmur, he opened his eyes, surprised to find them closed.

          He sat with his back to a tree, grass cool under him, the fall air crisp on his cheek, and two very worried captains beside him, staring at him. Simon let his outstretched hand fall, the deep lines around his eyes easing when Jim's gaze met his. Joel heaved a sigh, and Ellison found a smile somewhere and offered it to them both, feeling lighter than he had in days.

          "Blair's alive," he said, drinking in the heartbeat drumming through him, and looking up to see the wolf trot across the grass, fading into the sunlight as he watched. "I can hear him," he added in response to the doubtful looks he received.

          Simon's expression lightened and he smiled, wary hope touching his eyes. "Are you sure? It couldn't be someone who just sounds like him, or…" He let the words trail off, glancing away when the absurdity of the question registered.

          Ellison's smile softened, reading Banks' reluctance to hope in the question. "It's him, Simon. It's his heartbeat. And another one," he added at Joel's glance. "No one else."

          The bomb squad captain rubbed his hands down his thighs, then nodded, rising to his feet. "Well, then, what're we waiting for?" he asked. "Let's go kick some butt and get Blair out of there."

          "Amen to that," Banks agreed, standing and turning to stare at the building a short distance away.

          Jim found his feet, staring narrow-eyed at the structure, reaching out with his hearing one more time. "Just one other besides Blair," he confirmed at their glances.

          "Doesn't look like any external security, either," Joel rumbled, eyeing the building.

          "Not a very smart killer, is he?" Simon muttered, standing with hands on hips and frowning. "No security alarms, no windows, only one door in, and just one person in there besides Sandburg…"

          "Does seem strange," Taggert agreed, moving up beside his friend.

          "So the sooner we get in the sooner we find out what's going on," Jim replied, starting toward the building.

          The other two caught up with him as he reached the single door set in the near wall, all three of them halting to study it.

          "Mmm," Joel murmured, moving up to the door. It took a few minutes, but he stepped away and shrugged. "It's clean. It's a simple lock, not a deadbolt or something similar."

          Simon shook his head, then started toward the portal, only to be pushed aside by Ellison, who set himself, then kicked the door open with a single splintering crash before he threw himself through the gap.

          The room inside was dark except for a lamp set in a corner, shining warmly on a man seated in front of a computer, who jerked around to face the three as they stormed in. His expression twisted, and he lurched out of his seat, loosening the wire headset he wore until it hung by one ear. He didn't seem to see the three guns pointed at him.

          "No. No!" he said, glancing off into the darkness. His headset wobbled and fell off. "Please, you can't disturb my work! Number Nine is just entering a crucial phase, and he's done so well, the best by far of all my subjects, I must know his responses!"

          "Randy Harrington?" Simon asked, advancing toward him, then when the man nodded, he smiled, the expression fading as he stepped forward. "I'll show you responses," he growled, grabbing the man's wrist and jerking him forward, away from the computer. "Assume the position!"

          "What position?" the man asked, confused, glancing at Jim as he advanced into the darkness. "No, you mustn't go in there, you'll disrupt the stimuli and his responses–"

          "This is the position!" Simon barked, shoving the man against the wall and kicking his legs apart.

          Jim let the voices fade, focusing on what lay ahead of him. Blair's heartbeat was loud in his ears, but there were other sounds under it – insect noises, a jungle bird, the sound of running water and, fainter still, a male voice reciting something.

          He took a few steps forward and stopped, cocking his head. "…jungle. Quiet, peaceful, you're lulled into relaxation. The darkness is total, and although you know danger is out there, somewhere, for the moment, in the cave, you feel safe, out of danger…"

          Jim blinked, squinting through the darkness, building his sight gradually and letting the male voice die into the background. Pinpricks of red, yellow, green lights shone ahead of him, some of them steady, some flickering. Under the jungle noises and the voice, he could hear the whisper and hum of machinery, and dread suddenly thrust through him, the atavistic fear of the dark and what lay unseen tingling down his spine. He took a deep breath and focused, the room lightening immediately, and he froze, staring.

          Blair lay on a hospital cot, padded straps across his forehead, wrists, and ankles. An IV dripped into one arm, and a soft net, twinkling with small lights, lay tucked over his hair, closing at his hairline. A mike was set to his lips, and Jim jumped when the anthropologist spoke, his voice a thoughtful, quiet question.

          "Whatever's between us, it's getting stronger, isn't it?"

          So convincing was the sense of a conversational partner that the Sentinel glanced around, his heart thudding in his chest. But no one answered the query, although Blair's soft, "Mmm," made it clear that he'd received a response.

          Jim took a deep breath, staving off the chill that raced down his spine with an effort of will. Whatever reality held Blair, it was obvious that he had companions there, and for some reason that fact made the detective fight back a nudge of jealousy.

          Quiet now, Blair lay very still, his eyes closed, and the Sentinel could see the slow rise and fall of his chest.

          Taking a step closer, he could also see the earpieces stuffed into the anthropologist's ears, and his gaze followed the wires to the small CD player set on a table beside the bed.

          He stalked closer, one pace, two, and then he could see the bank of machines set behind the beds, linked to the grad student through the net that capped him, as well as by wires that ran from the CD player and the mike. Lights twinkled, running in quick sequences across one console, and Jim fought a sudden urge to pull his gun and fire until nothing was left but pieces of twisted machinery.

          But he couldn't do that. Whatever was going on here, it was clearly far more sophisticated than he'd imagined, and until they understood it, he didn't dare disturb a single thing.

          He paced up to Blair, hesitated, then reached to touch his friend's shoulder, relief rushing through him at the solid flesh that met his questing fingers.

          And all hell broke loose.


	10. Chapter 10

          "And so that's how it works." Blair finished his description of his and Jim's adventures with Golden and stretched, peering out at the sunrise beginning to peek over the rim of the world. Even exhausted as he still was, he found a warmth in his soul he couldn't remember experiencing before, and he glanced over at John with a smile, who met it with his own.

          "Beautiful, isn't it?" the Native American asked, waving at the slowly purpling clouds.

          "It sure is," Blair agreed, then yawned. "That was not a normal night," he said darkly. "I know it was longer than it should've been."

          John shook his head. "No, it wasn't normal."

          Sandburg nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought. And no one came to relieve us, either." He took a breath, then let it out, trying to rein in the frustration that bounced through him. _I guess one of the rules to this is that I'm not supposed to get any sleep. Damn, but I'm tired of this place. Where the hell is Jim?_

          He had spent the night talking, telling John about himself and the Sentinel, describing a few of the adventures they'd had. Enough to give the man a good sense of what they did together, and what they meant to each other. Sharing all that, for whatever reason, made Blair feel good. He knew if he went looking behind the thought John had given him, he'd find the answer, but he'd promised, and he'd keep it. But it was hard.

          He glanced up to find John watching him warily and felt a smile curve his lips. "Reading my mind again?"

          Lonetree shrugged, a small blush coloring his cheeks. "No, not really. I can't help but pick up on you sometimes, though."

          Blair looked at him, his amusement dying. "I wish you'd tell me why." John shook his head, and the anthropologist sighed. "Whatever's between us, it's getting stronger, isn't it?" he asked.

          The older man's gaze dropped and he nodded.

          "Mmm," Sandburg said, then shrugged it off, his gaze shifting to the hillside below them, studying the rocks tumbled there as he remembered his earlier conclusions concerning the reality of his situation.

          If he was right, and this place was only real in his own head, then he should be able to change it. He knew how to work with reality, his own and others', and now seemed as good a time as any to try. He took a deep, slow breath, focusing, pulling up all the energy he could summon.

          It took a few minutes, and from that alone he knew just how exhausted he must be, but eventually he felt the surge of power run through him, and he concentrated. The slope below was rocks. He wanted it to be grass, a smooth slope of green…

          The ground rippled, shimmered, and for a moment he felt what he could have sworn was Jim's hand on his shoulder, heard the almost audible _snap_ as the bond between them abruptly connected, and the Sentinel's energy sparked through him, warm and smooth and fiercely caring.

          The slope below was a carpet of grass.

          And then it shattered, all of it, and the pieces of his world fell apart, fracturing like a bullet-struck mirror, the cracks running into his soul at all angles, until he lost the bond and himself, falling, falling, until he hit bottom and darkness flowed over him, swallowing him like sand.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Jim! Jim, damn it, answer me!"

          Ellison peered up at his friend through eyes slitted against the overhead light, grimacing. "Stop yelling," he muttered, cringing when the sound of his voice rolled around inside his skull.

          "Jim." Even Simon's whisper was strident, and the Sentinel winced again as he maneuvered himself to a seated position, his head throbbing in time to the movement.

          "What happened?" Joel's voice was very low, a mere thread of sound as he knelt to face the detective, and Ellison gazed at him gratefully.

          "Don't know," he husked, noticing that he sat on the floor beside Blair's cot. "I touched his shoulder…" He trailed off, frowning. "Falling," he finished. "I remember falling."

          "Well, you certainly did that," Simon remarked, the near whisper not dulling his sarcasm. "Scared us to death when we heard the crash."

          Jim shook his head, then closed his eyes against the excited throbbing the movement woke in his skull. "Not me. Blair. He was falling."

          "Was that why you shouted?" Worry edged Taggert's voice, and Jim opened his eyes.

          "I shouted?" he asked blankly.

          "Loud and clear," Joel answered softly. "More like a scream, I guess. What happened?"

          Ellison rubbed his face, then forced himself to his feet, trying to ignore the way the world tilted around him. "Don't know," he answered when the bomb captain stood, both of them watching Simon lean over Blair, inspecting the earphones.

          Banks straightened, frowning down at the younger man. "Well, those sure aren't meant to be moved; they're sealed in with wax. I wish we knew what it's feeding to him."

          Jim hesitated, then opened to his friend's heartbeat, which was slightly faster now. Grounding off the steady pulse, he carefully shifted his hearing a little deeper.

          Jungle noises echoed around him, so real that he could almost smell the lushness. The voice was low and steady. "…packing their ponchos. Somewhere–"

          "No!" The frantic cry jerked him out of the recording, and he glanced up to find their prisoner trying to fight his way to a standing position. Since he lay on his stomach, his hands cuffed behind him, this was no easy feat. "No!" he gasped again as Simon halted his reach for the plug leading to the CD player. "If you disconnect him, he dies, and I haven't finished yet!"

          "You haven't finished yet?" Joel repeated softly, then took two long steps to reach the man and leaned down, jerking him to his feet. Shoving him up against the wall, he planted an arm across his windpipe and glared at him from a distance of less than a foot. "Just so you understand the situation," he said, his voice rising slightly, "I'll make this real clear. You _are_ finished! Now and forever! Now, how do we unhook him?"

          "You can't! You can't!" the man squeaked. "He's not supposed to die yet! And Number Nine is my–"

          The sentence died in a gurgle when Taggert pushed a little harder. Jim glanced down at Blair, noting the white card hanging over his head, "#9" stenciled across it in red ink. He shivered.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The clouds had cracks in them, and Blair blinked, staring until his aerial view was blocked by John's head as the man leaned over him.

          "ROOOOOOOOAWWWWWRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT?"

          The shaman screwed his eyes shut as the sound blasted through him. It took a minute for him to find his hands, and when he did they felt slow and clumsy when he tried to fit them over his ears.

          Even the darkness behind his eyelids was riddled with fractures, light throbbing through, and he groaned, then cringed as the sound rolled around inside his head. He was cold, the breeze chill on his naked body, then hot, suffocating inside his tee-shirt and jeans. The material was rough against his skin, and he shifted away from it, then whimpered when fire arched from his heels to his head. His mouth tasted of stale smoke and licorice, and he gagged, the scent of roses surfing over him with the wind.

_Turn down the dial._

          It was his own voice, low and even, with a soft lilt that was soothing to his abused ears, and he focused on it.

_Just turn down the dial, you can do it, just visualize it and turn it down._

          He saw the dial. Set in a computer console, it was a slide bar set below a long and narrow glass screen. The bottom of the window had numbers running along it, from one to ten, the numerals white print against dark plastic. Set in the right corner of the screen was a digital readout, the number ten glowing a deep red. The pointer on the bottom was set to that numeral as well, and he reached over and shoved it down, inch by slow inch, gritting his teeth against the high screech that accompanied the movement.

          The slide bar moved, though, inching its way down the scale, and the digital readout dropped at the same time, from ten to nine to eight to seven, where he had to pause to pant. The numeral glowed a light green now, darkening in shade at each lower digit and the screech dropped in tone as well.

          He took a breath and leaned on the slide bar again, watching the readout shift downward, until he halted at five, the dot that blinked into a steady glow below the number telling him that this was its normal setting.

          "Blair! Blair, are you all right?"

          The grad student slitted his eyes open, staring up to meet John's very worried gaze. The clouds above him were whole again, and he lowered his hands from his ears, blinking. "Yeah," he said tentatively, levering himself up on his elbows.

          The Native American sighed, reaching to steady him as he sat up, his touch gentle on Sandburg's shoulders. "You really had me scared there for a minute."

          "Me, too," the anthropologist muttered, leaning back against the cave wall. _Man, if that's what a zone-out is for Jim, I'm glad I'm not a Sentinel! And I think I'll pass on trying to change anything again, at least for a while._

          Glancing around, he shook his head slightly, frowning. Clearly only minutes had passed – the sun was just over the horizon, the rays warm on his skin. Behind him he could hear the voices of the others as they packed up their ponchos.

          "They'll be ready to move out soon," John commented, studying him. "What happened?"

          Blair shifted his gaze to the older man, still frowning. "I'm not really sure… let me think about it for a while."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          There was a dead silence in the room when the anthropologist finished speaking, and Jim glanced at the other two men, somehow not comforted by the similar horrified expressions they wore.

          "Oh my God," Joel breathed finally.

          "He talks as it happens," Jim said tiredly, rubbing his forehead, which was beginning to throb.

          Simon took a breath, then turned and yanked the prisoner to his feet. "Why?" he snarled into the man's face.

          "For his responses," was the eager answer. "How could I tell how he's responding to his situation otherwise? He's very adaptable, I tell you! It's so exciting! No one else has created an imaginary companion, but it was a very versatile move on his part. I am so impressed–"

          "An imaginary companion?" Ellison interrupted, as much to cut off the excited gabble as for the answer.

          "Yes!" the man nodded vigorously, his eyes fixed on the detective. "You see, there are a set number of soldiers in the scenario, and they're diminished at each encounter. None of them are programmed to interact with the subject, but this one does. Number Nine is a most flexible–"

          "His name's Blair!" Jim growled, advancing on the man. "Blair Sandburg! He's not a number for you to play with, he's my partner, and I want him back! Right now!"

          "Oh, are you Jim?" the experimenter asked, his smile growing. "I've heard so much about you from Number Nine! You're his Sentinel, aren't you?"

          Ellison stopped in his tracks, staring at the man, aware of Joel's and Simon's held breaths resonating with his own. "What the hell do you mean, 'his Sentinel'?" he snapped.

          "Well, that's how he described you," the prisoner replied, the reasonableness of his tone forcing prickles down Jim's spine. "He explained it all to his imaginary companion, even described quite a few of your adventures."

          "Described...?" Jim repeated, unable to finish the quote, fighting down the anger and betrayal surging through him.

          "Oh, yes!" the man bubbled. "Of course, his companion had quite a time convincing him to explain. I was so glad when he finally did; the stories were fascinating!"

          "You have these conversations on tape?" Joel broke in.

          "Yes, of course–"

          "We'll take them," Simon said, jerking the man back toward his computer. "Right now."

          "But my research–"

          "To hell with your research!" Simon roared, his patience finally snapping. "Give us those tapes!"

          Jim watched them go, then turned back to Blair, caught in spite of his anger by the somber expression on his friend's face.

          "He didn't betray you, Jim." Joel's voice was low and calm, and the Sentinel sighed, glancing at him when the older man halted by his side.

          "I know," he answered, trying not to let his weariness show. "It just caught me by surprise, that's all. Blair's never told anyone about us."

          "And he wouldn't have now, if he weren't drugged," Taggert pointed out.

          "I know," Jim repeated, scowling at the frown the anthropologist wore. "I just wish I understood what was going on in his head!"


	11. Chapter 11

_Well, one thing's for sure_ , Blair thought as he followed the others out onto the trail, John again at the rear. _This place is only real in my head, nowhere else. If I'd somehow been dumped into Vietnam itself, I couldn't've changed that rock into grass, even with Jim's help._

          Jim…

          Jim had found him. That hand on his shoulder had been real and solid and material, and that meant that whoever had kidnapped him was in custody and he himself was in the hands of the good guys. His shoulders relaxed and he smiled a little, dodging an overhanging branch, a touch of hope trickling through him.

          And when they'd linked, well, that gave him several things to think about, too. First off, it was a relief to know that they still could – after the last few weeks he had started to wonder. Second was the fact that the Sentinel still cared about him enough to try, and the feelings that came across when they'd touched had made that very clear. Jim was worried about Blair, and scared for him, and, above all, he wanted him back, whole and safe.

          That, all by itself, made Blair feel better, as did the knowledge that, wherever he himself was, Jim was probably right beside him. But it was frustrating to know that just the other side of consciousness lay the life he so wanted to return to, and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do to aid the process. Changing this reality obviously didn't work, and he wasn't really eager to try it again, not with a backlash like that.

          That backlash…

          He took a breath and held it, then released it, sighing as he stepped carefully around a curve in the trail, avoiding a bush that had grown into the middle.

          The backlash matched Ellison's description of what a zone-out felt like. Not being a Sentinel himself, Blair wasn't at all sure how he'd managed to have one, but he wondered if it might not be because Jim and he had been linked at the time his reality fell apart. If he was drugged, maybe the chemicals running through his system had distorted his reaction so he'd experienced a zone-out rather than Jim. Or maybe the Sentinel had zoned-out and Blair had gone along for the ride.

 _I hope not. Better me than him. At least I worked my way out of it, and it's not a natural state for me, might not have hung on that long anyway._ That had been a severe zone-out, touching all the senses, and if someone hadn't been there to help Ellison work his way out, then the detective might still be stuck, growing weaker and more confused by the moment. _And I'm honestly not sure that Simon or Joel could bring Jim out of something that serious._

          Blair gnawed his lip, worry growing in him.

          Maybe the fact that he'd talked himself through it meant that he'd talked Jim through it, too, but if he hadn't, then he might wake up to find his friend dead, unless someone else could snap the Sentinel out of it.

          He had to get out of here.

          Halting, he closed his eyes, focusing his energy deep inside, then thrusting it out, visualizing the reality around him dissipating like mist on a hot, sunny day.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "All right," Simon snapped as he returned, several audio tapes in his hands. He prodded Harrington along in front of him, then, glancing at Jim, he ordered, "Let's get this show on the road. Turn that thing off!"

          Evidently Banks' earlier actions had had an impact on the man, for his gaze was terrified. "No! You don't understand! I can't do that!"

          "Why not," Simon growled, bending to untie the prisoner's feet while Joel stepped over and reached for his hands.

          "The act of unhooking him will kill him! The only way to exit the program is to win the game!"

          Simon paused, staring at him, then shook his head. "Why should I believe you?"

          "Because it's the truth!"

          "Why don't we just call in some other specialists and get their opinion?" Joel rumbled, eyeing Harrington closely.

          "Because they won't understand it," the experimenter answered, staring at Taggert. "I'm the designer, and the computer is keyed to me. Without me, the program can't be changed to match the subject's responses, and that'll throw off the game, making it much harder to win."

          "But he can win," Joel asserted.

          "Oh, yes," Harrington nodded vigorously. "Or at least Number Nine can," he added, frowning. "The other subjects never made it through the next phase, so–"

          "You mean they died," Jim stated, his voice making Harrington jump.

          "Ah, well, at any time the probability is high that–"

          "Those kids had families!" Simon snapped. "Parents, girlfriends, lovers… they had futures ahead of them. What right did you have to kill them?"

          Harrington stood up a little straighter, his shoulders settling. "My work will save lives – millions of lives. My subjects are a means to that end. If the records of their responses adds to my research, then their individual lives were worth it."

          The three men stared at him, then Simon turned away. "Mad as a Hatter," he muttered. "We're not going to get any help from him."

          "But he does seem to know what he's talking about," Joel replied, joining his friend. "I think we might want to leave him here, keep an eye on him while we call in other people to help us."

          Simon nodded, grimacing. "Maybe so. What do–?"

          "Aaah!" Blair's cry and the computer's high-pitched beeping sounded at the same time, and all of them spun, Jim hurrying over to the anthropologist, closely followed by the two captains.

          The young man twisted on the cot, straining against the bonds that held him, his hands arched open. His eyes were open, staring past the men as they halted at his bedside. Blood trickled down his chin from a bitten lip, and his brows were knitted, his features taut.

          "What's happening?" Simon demanded, whirling on the experimenter, who was trying to hobble back to his computer.

          "I don't know!" he answered, raising his voice to be heard over the rapid beeps. Reaching his station, he glanced over the screens and looked back at them. "Untie me," he ordered.

          "Why?" Banks snapped, glancing back and forth between the captive anthropologist and Harrington.

          "He's trying to shut down the program!" the man answered, attempting to type with his bound hands, but halting in frustration.

          "So?" Joel asked, one eye on the Sentinel, who was trying to calm Blair, although he wasn't having much luck.

          "The algorithms are all wrong– It will kill him. Untie me!"

          Taggert hesitated, then, exchanging glances with Simon, strode over and unlocked the cuffs. Harrington pounced on the keyboard, typing furiously. The beeps slowed, then stopped, and Blair gasped, jerking taut once more before falling limply back into the mattress, his expression relaxing.

          Jim smoothed his hair, his fingers catching slightly in the net, then turned, stalking toward Harrington. "What the hell was that about?" he snarled, jerking the man away from the keyboard. "What did you do to him?"

          "He was trying to interrupt the program," Randy answered, awe in his voice. "I've never seen that before, I don't see how–"

          "What does that mean?" Ellison's voice was deadly cold, a tone that Banks had only heard a few times in the years the man had worked under him, and he glanced over at Joel, both of them moving closer to the Sentinel.

          Harrington blinked at the detective. "The computer interprets any attempt to interrupt the program as an attack on its integrity, and thus starts to shut down the life systems of the subject."

          "You mean it starts to kill them," Joel offered, shifting a half-step toward the furious Sentinel.

          "Yes, yes," the man nodded. "But I managed to halt his attempt in time. Number Nine will be fine. Although I don't understand the change in the algorithms–"

          "And you did this how?" Simon asked, watching the muscles in Ellison's arms cord at the question.

          "Why, I just increased the dosage of the drug, which then makes him more pliable to the suggestions the tape supplies."

          "You mean that you threw him back in his cage and locked the door," Jim gritted. "He was trying to break out, and you stopped him."

          "Well, yes," the man admitted. "Although I must admit, I don't see how–"

          Ellison dropped him and turned, the movements carefully controlled. "He knows I'm here."

          "What do you mean?" Taggert asked quietly.

          "He knows I'm here!" Jim repeated, staring at them. "He's a shaman, damn it! He knows somewhere out here is safety, _his life_ , so he tried to break out of wherever he is and come home! And he might've done it, too," he added, glowering at Harrington, "if you hadn't stopped him." His glare shifted to include all three of them before he paced back to Blair, halting beside the bed and resting a hand on his friend's shoulder.

          "Jim." Simon's voice was soft but steady, and he met the Sentinel's angry glare head on as he stepped over to join him. "The computer might have killed him. This way, at least he's alive, and we have some time to figure out what to do next."

          "You don't know that!" Ellison rebuked. "He might've broken out by himself if we'd given him a chance. Now he's stuck wherever he is, with less ability to resist than he had before."

          "I know," Banks admitted. "But what if Harrington's right?"

          The detective snorted. "That bastard wants Blair right where he is. Why should we trust a word he says?"

          "I don't," the captain replied. "But what if he's right?"

          "He has–"

          "What if he's right?"

          Jim turned away, his shoulders slumping. "Simon…"

          Banks rested a hand on his friend's arm, feeling the muscles clench under his touch. "We'll get Blair back, Jim. My word on it."

          Ellison shot him a long look. "Don't make promises you might not be able to keep, Simon."

          "I'm not," Banks replied evenly, hoping that it was the truth.

          "I think we should have a doctor standing by, too," Joel said softly, moving up to join them.

          "He won't have anything to treat," Ellison answered bleakly, rubbing his eyes. "It's all in Sandburg's mind."

          Simon and Taggert exchanged glances, and the Major Crimes captain nodded. "And a doctor. And we need to call in someone who knows computers, too."

          "Jack Kelso," Ellison said flatly, turning back to stand beside the anthropologist.


	12. Chapter 12

          "Blair, come on, son, wake up. Come on now."

          It sounded like John had been saying this for a while, and Sandburg sleepily mused over the tired, worn tone of the words. He lay on the ground, his head pillowed on something soft, and that very fact was such a solace that he had to fight not to fall right back into slumber. He was so tired.

          But there were things to do, and Jim was waiting–

          And he was wide awake, as if the Sentinel's name was a wake-up call.

          "Thank God," Lonetree said, looking down at him. "Are you all right?"

          Blair blinked up at him, wishing his vision wouldn't blur around the edges. "Jim?" he asked, then grimaced. "Sorry. Yeah, I'm fine." He levered himself up, then fell backwards when the world reeled under him.

          It took a few minutes before his stomach stopped roiling, and he took several deep breaths, then opened his eyes again, finding himself leaning back into John. Embarrassment surged through him, then died when he ran out of energy. "Thanks," he muttered, trying to straighten. Lonetree helped him sit up but kept a hand on his shoulder, and Blair swayed, then caught himself.

          "Oh boy," he gulped when his stomach rebelled, then quieted. "What-What happened?"

          "That's my question," the Native American said, his hand tightening on the younger man's shoulder. "You stopped in the middle of the trail, and a moment later everything started to fray around the edges."

          "Fray?" the shaman asked.

          John shrugged. "That's what it looked like. Things started to fade, then it all went solid again. It went on like that for a few minutes, rippling from one to the other, and then everything went black. Pitch black," he clarified at the anthropologist's questioning glance. "I grabbed you and for a moment it felt like there was nothing around us, just a void. And then it was daylight and we **fell** onto the trail. Actually dropped a few inches, but when we came down, you were unconscious."

          "How long ago was that?" Blair asked, searching his memory, which seemed full of holes.

          "At least ten minutes," Lonetree answered. "I was beginning to worry." He studied the anthropologist. "What happened?"

          The grad student picked up a twig, twirling it in his fingers. He marked out a series of lines, then drew one long stroke across them, inhaling when his memories abruptly fell into place. Surveying the lines, he sighed, then lifted his head to meet John's gaze.

          "I was trying to break out," he answered, a faint feeling of déjà vu echoing through him with the words, together with the sense that Jim was somewhere nearby. "I think I almost did, but either something happened to stop me, or I ran out of energy. I'm not sure which."

          "It could've been both," John commented. "But for a moment there I wasn't sure you were breathing, so I wouldn't advise trying that again."

          Blair took a deep breath, a cold prickle moving through him at the man's words. "No, I won't. I don't think it would work anyway; something's changed." _So close, damn it, so close! I know I was. If only–_ He clamped down on his frustration and set his teeth. "What happened to the others?"

          John lifted a shoulder, pointing with his chin down the trail. "They're camped out around that bend, waiting for us."

          "Nothing like finding out you're really the center of your own world," Blair quipped, trying to smile. "Let's go find them."

          Lonetree smiled back, the glint of approval in his eyes made the anthropologist blush and look away. But he was glad for the older man's support when he stood, and together they started down the path, walking slowly.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Jim sat in the dark, watching Blair. The detective's shoulders were tight, and he stretched, wincing as a joint popped. It seemed like days since he'd been able to relax, and every muscle in his body ached.

          He wondered how Sandburg felt. The psychotropic drug had to be hard on the man's body, and a higher dosage must have pushed Sandburg to his limits. To make matters worse, the anthropologist had gone into the experience already exhausted and hungry. At first, the higher dosage of the drug had forced Blair's heartbeat all over the board – uneven and stuttering, then fast, occasionally tripping, then normal, then a set of trip hammer beats that slammed through him. And then they had stopped. And so had his breathing.

          Ellison wiped his forehead, feeling the icy sweat that still clung there. Thank God the doctor had arrived by then, or his friend might have died right there. As it was, they'd had to hit his system with other drugs, since they couldn't shock his heart back while he was hooked up to the computer – no one knew what that would do, and no one wanted to find out, either.

          The doctor had also hung an IV and inserted a needle into Blair's other arm, all over Harrington's stringent objections. The man complained that none of his other subjects had had water or nutrients, and this anomaly would throw off his results, making them unusable. Jim's reaction to the statement hadn't been civil, and it had taken both Joel and Simon to pull him away from the man. The Sentinel suspected that the officer who had been called in, and ordered to stand guard over Harrington, was there at least as much to protect him from Ellison as to watch him.

          Finally, though, Sandburg had stabilized, and he'd woken up in his reality. Jim was so relieved to hear his voice again he hadn't even blinked at his friend's almost verbatim recital of his own words, even though it made both Simon and Joel shift uneasily, eyeing Jim with a wary wonder that, at any other time, would've made the detective smile. It hadn't been that long since both men had been hardy skeptics on the subject of the metaphysical, but that was before the realities of friendship with a Sentinel and his shaman had forced them to accept it, and work with it.

          And now it was a new day, and Jim sat beside his friend in a darkened room, watching him with Sentinel sight, wondering what kind of mental bond could be tapped when those so linked were separated by drugs and computer programs, and hoping that, whatever it might be, it was enough to save both their lives.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

          Blair followed the soldiers ahead of him into a small, secluded clearing, watching as they settled down for lunch. Once halted, though, his legs couldn't hold him any longer, and he half-fell against a nearby tree, sliding down until he hit the ground, then sat there, eyes closed.

          "Sandburg."

          "Uh-huh," the anthropologist grunted, not bothering to open his eyes. It felt so good to sit still.

          A wet cloth touched his face, and Blair relaxed into the sensation, not moving even when the cut on his cheek began to sting.

          "Turn your head."

          Blair did so. He waited until John had finished his ministrations, then opened his eyes, gritting his teeth as the world tilted around him, then slowly steadied. "How come you never seem to get tired?" he asked the older man sitting beside him.

          "Different circumstances," Lonetree answered, handing him a canteen.

          Blair downed a few swallows of water, then handed it back, wishing he could drink the container dry. "What does that mean?"

          "What do you think it means?" the Native American asked as he replaced the cap on the canteen and placed it back on his webbelt.

          "Beats me," the Guide replied, blinking at him.

          John studied him and shook his head. "I think trying to break the reality framework – twice at that – really took it out of you."

          Blair smiled, then shrugged. "Yeah, probably." He stared out at the jungle for a while, then said evenly, "I guess that means you aren't here in the same sense I am."

          "You already knew that."

          "Yeah," the grad student agreed, yawning. "I guess I did. It's just eerie to see it proven, that's all."

          "And you think watching you act as a shaman to a Sentinel isn't?" The Native handed him a pouch, the end torn open, and the anthropologist reached in and removed the smaller pouches of dried food, absently tearing one open and lifting it to his mouth.

          "Well, yeah, I guess it could be," he said, then halted, staring down at the pouch. "Wait, I haven't eaten here before." He looked up at the older man. "What gives? I didn't even think about it, but I know I haven't had a bite of food for at least a day and a half, my time. I don't know how that compares to time in the real world, but here… something's changed."

          "You said that before, too," John pointed out, tearing open his own pouch and removing the smaller containers within. "C-rats," he sighed. "I can't say I've actually missed them, except maybe the peaches and pound cake."

          "You were in Vietnam for real?" Blair asked, slurping up the contents of the pouch he held and feeling his stomach clench around the unexpected input. "When?"

          "1969," Lonetree stated.

          Blair stared down at his food for a few minutes. "Was that where you died?"

          John dropped his canteen, luckily managing to grab it before any water splashed out. "Are you really that bright, or is this some kind of metaphysical sense you have?"

          "Then you did die?"

          The Native American dusted off the canteen and capped it, setting it down between the two of them. "What makes you think that?"

          Sandburg shrugged, watching him. "It feels right. And it would explain a lot of things."

          "Such as?"

          "Such as how you can be here and not worry about what's happening to you back in the real world. If you're a spirit, then that gives you all kinds of leeway that an ordinary person wouldn't have. It doesn't explain our connection, but I'll figure that out eventually."

          "Don't I know it," Lonetree muttered. He glanced across at Blair, a half-smile touching his lips. "Let it go, Sandburg."

          "I just want to–"

          "Let it go."

          The anthropologist eyed him, then sighed. "All right. For now."

          "You'll know soon enough," the older man replied. "What do you think's changed?"

          "Mmm," the shaman answered, dipping into another pouch. "Well, let's see. Jim's found me, for one."

          John's gaze sharpened. "He has?"

          "Yeah," Blair nodded, his mouth full. "I'm sure of that. I just hope he's okay. If he got caught in that zone-out that hit me…" He trailed off, then took a breath. "I just hope he didn't." He sighed. "And something's changed in my head. I don't think I could come that close to breaking out again, but I'm not sure why. And then there's the food. Since I know this isn't real, I wonder if this is the representation of something they're giving my body, like, uh, a feeding tube or something like that."

          "Sounds reasonable," Lonetree agreed, indicating the canteen, which the grad student scooped up and uncapped, taking a few swallows before handing it back.

          "Hey," Sandburg asked, pausing as he tore open the last pouch. "Why can't you tell me what's going on in the real world? I mean, go there and come back," he added at the confused look his question received.

          The Native shook his head. "Doesn't work that way. I'm here, not there."

          "And you can't leave and come back?"

          John shook his head. "Nope."

          "Oh." Blair considered that as he cleaned out the pouch. "Too bad. I guess that means you're my ghost, no one else's, huh?"

          "Sandburg…"

          "You know, you sound just like Jim when you do that."

          "I'm not surprised," the older man sighed. "Keeping up with you would be a full-time job. I sympathize with him."

          "Hey," the grad student protested, dumping the small pouches into the larger one, "I'm not _that_ bad."

          "Worse," the Native asserted, taking the pouch and adding it to the pile the other soldiers were making. "I think you're right about the food."

          "You do?"

          "Uh-huh. You're beginning to sound downright chipper, which probably means you're going to crash soon."

          "You're probably right," Blair agreed, cautiously standing up. "I do feel better. But food can't make up for lost sleep."

          "Or for adrenaline rushes," Lonetree agreed, also standing. "But it could make you think it can, for a while."

          "Until that first rush of energy runs out," Sandburg agreed. "But we might as well take advantage of it while I've got it and head out."

          "Might as well. You seem–"

          Shots cracked around them, and everyone scrambled for cover.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The room was as dark as when they had left it, and Simon and Joel paused a moment, blinking. Mid-morning sunlight streamed through the gap behind them where the shattered door had been until Taggert turned and rearranged the blanket hanging over the portal.

          "Hey," Jack Kelso greeted them.

          "What's the verdict?" Simon asked of the wheelchair-bound man who rolled up to meet them.

          Kelso sighed, rolling his chair around and leading the way to a long table that had been set up near the computer. Two lamps now shone in that corner, but the rest of the room was pitch black. Harrington sat at the computer, his gaze fixed on the screens. The uniformed officer standing behind him glanced over at them, then back to the man he was guarding.

          "Have a seat." Kelso gestured at the chairs as he settled himself at the table. "We need to talk."

          "That doesn't sound promising," Joel commented as the two men followed the order. The Sentinel emerged from the darkness to join them, together with the doctor, who switched off his flashlight when he entered the circle of light.

          "Jim," Simon greeted, frowning. "How long have you been here?"

          "Never left," Jim mumbled, slumping into a seat and staring at Kelso.

          "I thought I told you to go home and get some rest," Banks said.

          Even the curt comment couldn't hide the concern under it, and Ellison shrugged.

          "So, what's up?" Taggert asked before Banks could reply.

          The former CIA agent rubbed a hand across his face, then shifted to look at them, his gaze lingering on Jim. "Some good news, some not so good," he replied. "Basically, this is what I've figured out so far. Harrington's goal in this project was to test and train subjects' abilities to adapt to new situations. If he could do that, he thought fewer of the men he trained would die in battle. So he applied for funding and got it, created the programs he needed, found his subjects and started testing."

          "You mean that this is _legal?_ " Simon asked, staring at him.

          Kelso shrugged. "The computers, the equipment, the testing itself – yeah. Funded and everything. He's even okayed to run subjects through it. But not _these_ subjects. And not under these conditions."

          "In other words, he's not supposed to be kidnapping and murdering innocent civilians who didn't agree to be tested."

          "Got it in one, Captain Taggert," the ex-agent nodded. "He was cleared to start testing willing subjects, with stringent conditions and safety procedures and under strict supervision. _This_ scenario was definitely not in the contract."

          "But he's doing it anyway," Ellison commented, his voice rough.

          "Offhand, I'd say his success rate's pretty low," Banks commented. "Considering every one of his victims has died – so far," he added quickly. "It sounds like his program doesn't work very well in training them to adapt."

          Kelso sighed. "Harrington's problem was he expected his subjects to adapt quicker and easier than they did. In experimental terms his expected baseline was too high, and his subjects died before they reached it. All except one."

          "Blair," Jim said hollowly.

          "Yes," the ex-FBI agent agreed. "Blair's the only one who's consistently managed to reach that baseline."

          "Where is he?" Banks asked, his gaze on the Sentinel, who had propped his chin in his hand and was staring at the wall, obviously well-versed in Kelso's conclusions. "Where does he think he is?"

          Jack hesitated, then sighed. "Vietnam." The two police captains stared at him and he went on. "He's in Vietnam. As near as I can tell, he's with a unit that's being slowly decimated by the VC. Their objective is to reach their firebase with some intelligence they're carrying, but their numbers are slowly being whittled down. We estimate Blair's been on the run for what probably feels like several days now."

          "One and a half," Jim interjected without moving. "That's what he said a little while ago."

          Kelso sighed. "Okay, so time's moving slower for him than it is for us."

          "How do we get him back?" Joel asked, not quite looking at Jim, who was staring down at his clenched fists.

          Kelso hesitated, obviously nerving himself to give the answer. "We aren't sure."

          "You aren't sure?" Simon repeated incredulously. "What do you mean, you aren't sure? Why can't we just rip out the IVs, pull the plugs, and take him out of here?"

          "That would kill him," Jack said flatly. "Harrington wasn't kidding about that. The computer controls Blair's IV, the recording playing in his ears, and the sensor net. Interrupt the program and the computer kills the subject. Instantaneously. Even if we had people standing by to pull all the plugs at the same time, I don't think you could beat the computer. As far as I can tell right now, there's no way out of the program except by beating it at its own game."

          "But no one's ever gotten that far," Banks said, his teeth tight around his cigar. "Can it be done?"

          Kelso sighed. "I think it can. The program, as far as I can tell, allows for someone to win."

          "But?" Joel asked.

          "I'm not sure how long it'll take."

          "And his situation gets more dangerous with every hour," Jim added, not looking at anyone. "As the unit members are killed off, the VC are going to target Blair more and more often, and he's going to have fewer chances to duck."

          "That's true," Jack agreed, eyeing the Sentinel. "Adaptable Sandburg might be, but there's only so much he can deal with before he starts to run out of options."

          "And he doesn't have that much time."

          Everyone glanced at the doctor, who looked around at them. "I'm not sure we've all been introduced; I'm Dr. Alan Rivers. I'll jump straight in. Mr. Sandburg has several things going for him, but there's one thing he doesn't, and that's this psychotropic drug that's being administered."

          "Explain."

          Jim's voice was curt, and Rivers glanced at him, then continued. "The drug is hard on the human body, and his body chemistry is severely unbalanced. The continual dosage places a strain on his kidneys, his heart, and his brain."

          "What're you saying, Doctor?" Taggart asked, trying not to look at the Sentinel, who was sitting with his hands over his eyes.

          Alan glanced around at all of them, then shook his head. "What I'm saying is this, gentlemen. Unless Mr. Sandburg is removed from that drug soon, his body is going to start shutting down, system by system. Briefly put, he's going to die. And before that, he'll be an idiot."

          Banks scrubbed his hand over his face, feeling the stubble there. Damn, but he was tired. What Jim or Blair felt like he didn't want to consider. "What's our deadline?"

          The doctor met Banks' eyes. "Three days, no more. After Sunday evening, the drug will start affecting his brain, and you might as well withdraw him from that doctorate program he's in, because he'll never complete it."

 


	14. Chapter 14

          "Down! Down! Down!"

          The sergeant's shout was the only warning they had, and Blair dove for cover, rolling behind a fallen tree and cramming himself into the small space he found there. His shoulder throbbed fiercely at the rough impact, and he grimaced, swallowing a pained hiss.

          "Surfer, get out of there!"

          A gurgling cry was the only response, and Blair shivered, trying not to move.

          A figure pushed its way through the brush, halting to stare down at the prone grad student. Clearly VC, the Asian had all the characteristics of that stereotyped villain, and his feral smile widened as he lowered the muzzle of his AK47 to point at the anthropologist.

          Sandburg came up off the ground and threw himself at the man. They went down together, rolling over bushes and vines and hillocks of damp earth, now one on top, now the other, the VC straining to bring his weapon to bear as a club and Blair fighting to knock it away.

          He heard John shouting, but the words were lost in the gunfire still erupting around them. Blair landed on his back, his knees braced against the weight of the Asian mounted on his chest, the gun swinging between them, wavering from his control to that of the VC and back.

          The gun was heavy in his hands, then light, and the Asian grinned, forcing it down until the still-warm barrel touched the grad student's neck. Sandburg bucked, kicking out and rolling. The VC slipped sideways, one hand letting go of the gun to slap a flat palm against the earth, staying his fall. His knees still gripped the anthropologist's body, and he lurched upright, his weight solid against the shaman's struggles.

          An arm circled the man's neck and jerked sideways, the small crack forcing Sandburg to wince, his stomach tightening. He sat up, watching the Asian crumble as John released him.

          Blair rose to his knees, pausing at the crack of a branch behind him. Too late aware of the danger, he only just managed to throw himself forward, but the bullet that plunged into his side cut his action short, and he collapsed, the world spinning down into darkness.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Standing beside Blair, Jim listened to the recording with a frown, a muscle in his jaw jerking. As the grad student's breathing grew harsh, he leaned forward, his fingers sliding around his Guide's wrist.

          Sandburg gasped, trying to twist sideways, and sudden agony stabbed through the detective, radiating up and down his ribcage and twisting his stomach into a hard knot. He stumbled, falling to his knees, his free arm tight against his stomach.

          "Jim! Something's happening with Blair!" Bank's voice echoed across the room, where the Sentinel could see the group clustered around the computer. "Jim!"

          "Simon," Taggert said in a low voice, "he probably already knows."

          Banks glanced at Joel, then grabbed the flashlight from the startled doctor and led the way into the darkness, the beam finding Ellison's hunched form in seconds.

          "What happened?" Simon asked, trying to keep his voice low as he knelt beside his friend.

          "Don't… know," the detective gritted. "He was… fighting… VC attacked from behind."

          "And you felt it," Banks growled, glancing up at Taggert, who looked down at him from his examination of Blair and shrugged.

          "He's quiet now," the bomb squad captain said, his lips tight. "But his heartbeat is fast and pounding."

          "That's quite an adrenaline jolt he just experienced," the doctor commented, joining them and inspecting the anthropologist from the other side of the cot. "I'd say he was injured."

          Simon and Joel exchanged glances, and Taggert looked back at the doctor, asking, "Can you do anything for him?"

          Dr. Rivers shook his head, staring down at Blair. "It's not real here, only in his mind. He probably thinks he's losing blood, but since he's not, we can't treat him for it. He might believe he's suffering from shock, but we can't help him for that, either. Even if we pile blankets on him and heat him up, it doesn't seem to affect what's happening over there." He shrugged helplessly.

          "And if he thinks it's bad…" Joel said softly.

          "Then it's bad," Rivers answered. "His body will react as if it's real, but we can't help him because it's not."

          "Damn," Banks swore, keeping his voice low, his hand tight on Ellison's shoulder, feeling the tremors that shook through the man. "Jim, you can let go now."

          "Detective?" the doctor asked, looking across and down at the man. "Are you all right?"

          "Never mind," Simon said curtly. "This is private, Doctor. We'll handle it."

          Alan's eyebrows went up, and he glanced at both captains, then nodded. "All right. Call me if you need me."

          Banks waited until the physician's footsteps died away across the room, then shook the Sentinel a little. "Jim, come on, let go of him."

          Taggert knelt beside him, his gaze steady on the detective. "Jim, you can't help him this way." He reached out to rest a hand on Ellison's arm, then let his hand drop before completing the motion. "Jim?"

          Blair stirred and the Sentinel forced himself to his feet, his fingers still tight around his friend's wrist. Watching the anthropologist's eyes move under his closed lids, he knew Sandburg was waking up. There was the barest catch of the younger man's breath, so faint that only a Sentinel could hear it, and Jim's heart clenched.

_I just want this to be over and go home!_

          The thought was shaky, exhaustion-edged, and the worn desperation that lay under it provoked an automatic response in the Sentinel. Jim closed his eyes and reached out mentally.

          For once it was easy, and in his version of the link he found himself beside his friend, a hand on his shoulder. Blair glanced around and sighed, relaxing into him. The Sentinel caught him, and for a moment they stood like that, the shaman curled into Jim's embrace, his head nestled against Ellison's shoulder. The scent of his hair drifted into the detective's nostrils, and he inhaled, his arms strong around the younger man, then–

          A force slammed into them, and they both fell, sucked into a maelstrom that buffeted them, first this way, then that, spinning them around in some tremendous whirlpool, down and down and down. The current forced itself between them, and Jim tightened his arms around his Guide, feeling Blair grab his forearm. A whine started to build, growing louder and louder, and the Sentinel gritted his teeth. He could feel his friend cringing against the sound as well, and the torrent suddenly surging around them was much stronger than before, working its way between them with a cold power that made them both shiver. Jim felt his grip loosening, felt Blair's strength waning, and with a jerk the dark river sucked them apart.

          "No!" Jim reeled back, panting as the world turned slowly around him. The floor came up and caught him with a crash. "No," he whispered, sagging back into Simon's strong grip. "Damn it!"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "You know, you look like hell."

          "Thanks, Simon," Jim replied dryly, leaning back in the passenger seat of the captain's car.

          Simon stopped at a light and glanced at him. "I'm serious. You need to get some sleep."

          Ellison shrugged, staring past the signal at the road that led to the loft.

          "You don't have to do this alone, Jim."

          "Yes, I do."

          Banks sighed through his teeth, not bothering to hide the sound. "Ellison–"

          "He's my partner, Captain."

          "And I'm your friend!" Simon snapped, pressing the accelerator when the light turned green. "And Sandburg's, too. You don't have to face Naomi alone. I can stay with you and we can both talk to her."

          Jim glanced at him, reaching to unsnap his seatbelt as the car halted in front of the loft. "Thanks, Simon. I mean it," he added when the man glared at him. "But this is something I have to do myself."

          "All right," Banks answered, the line between his eyebrows deepening. "But I'll be at the building with Sandburg when you get there."

          The detective nodded, then opened the door and climbed out, slamming it behind him.

          Simon watched him walk toward the outside stairway, shaking his head when his friend stumbled over the curb. "And be careful driving back!" he admonished as the Sentinel started up the steps.

          Jim waved a hand in his direction without looking, and the captain sighed, then swung the car around and back onto the street.


	15. Chapter 15

          "And you can talk to the doctor there for the medical details," Jim finished, watching Naomi unconsciously pluck the petals off one of the daisies she had earlier inserted into the vase on the table.

          "So, he's been in this simulation since Monday afternoon," she said, looking across at him, her voice level.

          Jim nodded, bracing himself.

          "And as far as he's concerned, he's in Vietnam."

          Her voice shook slightly on the last word and Jim swallowed, nodding.

          "And there's no way out unless he wins the game, but every minute he survives, his chances get better that someone will shoot him, or he'll step on a booby trap or-or… something."

          He had to force his head to move, but he managed.

          She was quiet a moment, her eyes down, plucking the last petals off the flower. Holding the petal in her hand, she studied it for a long moment. "You know," she said without looking up, "it took a while before I realized Blair was happy here with you. He was doing something that made a difference, and he cares about you, perhaps more than he ever lets you know, but it was clear in his every word and look when I was here, and in every story he told me when I wasn't." She pressed a finger into the petal, and Jim swallowed, the quiet reflection behind her words cutting deeper than anger could.

          "When he thought you'd died this last summer, he was devastated."[1] She glanced up at him and Jim met her eyes, then looked away as he remembered – as if it were a very long time ago – the wild hug he'd gotten from Blair when they'd first met after that separation.

          "And I know…" she said, her voice growing more hoarse. She paused to gain control over it. "…that you care about him just as much."

          Unable to bring himself to dodge the truth, Jim met her gaze. "Yes," he answered, his breath catching at the end of the word.

          She nodded. "I knew that, but I'm glad to hear you say it. So, explain to me why my son ended up in a dangerous situation without you there beside him."

          Her voice was calm, but Ellison could hear the embers of anger beginning to build, and he took a long breath. "I can't," he replied. "There isn't a good reason. I should've been there, and I wasn't. It's my responsibility."

          She shook her head. "I don't understand, Jim. Was he on a case? Is this because some person the two of you put away finished his prison term and came back for revenge? Why is this happening?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

          "Did Kelso tell you the latest?" Joel asked, sitting down beside Simon at the table, both of them glancing toward the anthropologist, still and quiet under the doctor's flashlight-lit examination.

          "No," Banks answered, propping his chin on his hand, shifting his gaze to his friend. "What?"

          "Seems like Blair is getting some sleep," Taggart replied, handing his friend a cup of coffee. "Have some."

          "How?" The Major Crimes captain accepted the gift, but set it down without even trying it. "It's been about two days from his point of view, and he hasn't slept yet."

          "No," Joel responded, staring pointedly at the cup until Simon lifted it to his lips. "Blair just thinks he hasn't. Jack says the computer's feeding him sleep in four-hour doses. He just exits and enters the program without noticing he missed any time."

          "Mmm." Banks swallowed, feeling his shoulders relax as the hot brew slid down his throat. "Ah, that's good," he sighed. "But Jim says he's just as exhausted now as before, more so."

          "Yeah," Taggart agreed, pouring a packet of sugar into his own cup and stirring. "Kelso had his own coffee brought over," he added. "Says he can't function on the instant Harrington has."

          "Don't blame him," Simon growled. "Go on."

          Joel sighed, laying his spoon on the table. "According to Kelso, the program keeps him on the edge of sleep deprivation, but it doesn't let him slip over. He doesn't get REM sleep, which is what he really needs, but he does get something."

          Banks sipped his coffee in silence for a long moment, then set it down. "So he never gets any more tired, but he never gains, either. That's…" He ran out of words and looked at Joel helplessly.

          "Yeah," Taggert sighed. "I guess the sleep he's getting doesn't make up for running all day and getting shot at. It just keeps him able to function."

          Simon rubbed a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. "Hell." A morose moment later, he glanced over at the other man. "Did I tell you that Naomi's due in tonight?"

          Joel's eyes widened. "Tonight?"

          "Uh-huh," his friend replied, staring across the darkened room at the doctor's flashlight. "Jim's gone to meet her."

          "Ah, crap," the bomb squad captain sighed. "How's he going to tell her about this?"

          Simon shook his head. "You've got me. I drove him back to the loft about an hour ago. I offered to wait with him and break the news myself, but he wouldn't have it. Said it was his responsibility, since Blair's his partner."

          "This didn't have a damn thing to do with Blair being Jim's partner," Joel said flatly. "Not according to Linda Dixon."

          "Yeah, I know," Banks agreed, holding his cup in both hands. "But you know Jim; he feels responsible for the kid, no matter what."

          "Yeah." Taggert shook his head, watching the doctor's flashlight bob toward them until the man emerged from the darkness, the lamplight showing up the lines around his eyes. "Any change, Doctor?"

          "No," the man sighed, turning off the flashlight and setting it down on the table. "He's holding his own right now. Although what that means on his side of things I don't know," he commented, frustrated. "Sometimes I just want to yank that damn thing out of his arm. Then I have to remind myself that might kill him."

          "Join the club, Doctor," Simon sighed. "Join the club."

          "Yeah," the physician sighed. "I'm going to grab some coffee." He headed off in that direction and Joel shook his head, watching him go.

          "I'm worried about Jim," Banks said, staring into his cup. "At this point I wish we could hook him up to the computer for four hours of sleep."

          "Amen to that," Taggert agreed, finishing off his coffee and setting down the cup. "And speak of the devil," he added as the door behind them opened, Ellison stepping in first to hold the blanket aside for the slender woman who followed him.

          "Here we go," Simon muttered, rising to his feet.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "And there's no way to communicate with him?" Naomi asked, staring down at her son, lit from above by the fluorescent light that they had turned on for her visit.

          It wasn't a question, but Banks shook his head anyway. "No," he replied, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice and not quite succeeding. "No, there's not."

          "But he knows it's not real," Joel added, watching her cup Blair's chin in her hand. "And he knows we've found him."

          Naomi glanced up, her eyes level and tearless. "How does he know that?"

          Simon shifted his feet and shrugged. "He recognized Jim's hand on his shoulder at one point." Never mind that they had actually touched on some level most people never dreamed of sharing; he wasn't about to get into the psychic stuff right now.

          "Ah." Her expression lightened and she smiled a little. "That's good. But even if he knows it's not real, I guess it doesn't matter if he can't fight the drug."

          Simon fought the urge to pick up the nearest flashlight and smash one of the consoles with it. "No," he gritted, "unfortunately that's true. But we're doing–"

          "Please, Captain," she said, holding up a hand and halting him mid-sentence, "don't spin me the tale that you're doing everything you can and it's only a matter of time before we have a breakthrough. It's obvious everyone here cares very much about Blair, and each one of you is giving your best. That's very comforting to me, but we all know that might not be enough. Don't try to make it easier on me by using platitudes."

          Banks swallowed. "Ms. Sandburg, if I've ever wondered where Blair got his guts, I know now it came from you."

          She smiled at him, an honest smile that trembled at the corners. "Thank you, Captain. But his father had that to spare as well." She took a breath while Simon and Joel exchanged glances at the unexpected disclosure. "And now," she continued, "would both of you explain to me why this happened?"

          Banks' eyebrows peaked. "Jim didn't tell you?"

          She glanced across the room to the table where the Sentinel sat, staring into space with an intent look. "His explanation left something to be desired, and I'd like to hear it from someone else."

          "Ten to one he tried to take the blame," Joel muttered, and Simon sighed when she nodded.

          "It's how he thinks," Banks commented. "But this time he didn't have a damn thing to do with it, and he knows it."

          "Which is what bothers him most," Taggert added.

          "Yeah," Simon agreed. "This is what happened, as far as we know," he said, meeting her gaze. "About a year ago, Blair was a TA for an interdisciplinary class of some sort."

          "Yes," Naomi answered, nodding, "I remember it. He enjoyed it, but said it was too much work and didn't want to do it again."

          Simon nodded. "Well, one of the other TAs for that class, a Linda Dixon, was in a relationship with Randy Harrington." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the computer, where the man sat slouched. "The class did some role-playing of some sort. Why, I don't have a clue–"

          "It's an exercise used to climb into the minds of other peoples and cultures," Naomi explained, and Banks grimaced, the words echoing in his head.

          "That sounds like something Sandburg would say," he commented.

          "In fact," she said, smiling a little, "that's how Blair described it to me. But what does that have to do with this?"

          "Everything," Simon answered grimly. "It seems Linda Dixon and Randy Harrington set up a little role-playing on-line group for certain students in that class after the semester ended. It was a very deliberate move on their part, because it was those kids Harrington targeted as subjects for his test."

          "So there were others before Blair."

          "Yes," the Major Crimes captain said with a nod. "Four that we know about across the last three months, and there may be four more that we haven’t found yet. They had no obvious connection with each other, but when we went back and looked, all of them had taken that class."

          "And all of them," Joel rumbled, "were in the on-line players group."

          "And they all died," she said after a pause.

          "Yes," Banks answered, trying not to sigh. "But none of them got as far in the game as Blair has."

          "But Blair wasn't in that role-playing group," she commented. "I remember him mentioning it, but he said he had enough adventures working with Jim; he didn't need to do that for play, too. And he didn't have the time."

          Simon shook his head. "That’s ironic. Blair would've been able to provide us with the key all along, if he'd been here. And you're right," he added, "he wasn't one of the role-playing group. But apparently he'd really impressed Harrington, who sat in on some of the lectures, and that was enough to make him a target."

          She shook her head. "And Jim took the blame for that?"

          "Afraid so," Banks nodded.

          "Well," she said, "I have something to say to him." She leaned over and kissed Blair on the forehead, cupped his cheek one more time, then started toward Ellison with a determined stride.

 

[1] See previous story in timeline, "Only a Stone's Throw," in _Sensory Overload #6_.


	16. Chapter 16

          It was late night, and Jim lay in bed, listening to Naomi's soft weeping. Wanting to leave the woman her privacy and unable to block out the sound in the quiet loft, he leaned over and turned on the white noise generator, then slumped back into bed with a sigh as all the extraneous noises vanished.

          However, normal night noises made the abnormality of this night all the more obvious, and he absently ran a hand over his side, remembering the sudden agony that had ripped through him earlier that afternoon.

          Blair was injured. He knew that, without knowing exactly how or why, and the only comfort was that whatever imaginary companion Sandburg had created was more likely to help care for him than were the soldiers. That might make a difference. Harrington's previous victims had all lived out their experiences in this pseudo-Vietnam with military units whose members hadn't really noticed or cared about the imported newbies. The men had, more than likely, ignored them completely, which would have terrified the young novices even more, and when they'd been wounded no one had helped them.

          But John was different. Given what the anthropologist had said in his early conversations with the man, Jim suspected that the Native American might be more real than anyone else in the game world, except the grad student, although the notion that he might be a spirit made the detective frown. He didn't like the idea of Blair working with someone who might be a ghost, and who certainly had unusual methods of convincing Sandburg to talk to him.

          However, none of that really mattered if John helped Blair make it through this version of Vietnam. But Jim wasn't at all sure Sandburg could win the game without more help than a spirit might be able to provide. He'd seen that look in a doctor's eyes often enough to know that Rivers was holding out hope when he wasn't at all sure it was really there. And Simon, Joel and Kelso knew it too.

          He took a deep breath as the idea that had been tiptoeing around his brain edged out into the open a little more. He had overheard Simon's comment to Joel about hooking Jim up to the computer to get a few hours of sleep. And Naomi had asked, more than once, if there was any way to communicate with Blair.

          What would happen if they hooked him up to the computer and gave him the same treatment Sandburg was getting? Would he be able to enter Blair's reality and help him?

          Staring up at the ceiling of the loft, the Sentinel swallowed hard. If anyone else had proposed the idea, he would have been the first to flatly deny the possibility, but he and Blair had shared so much over the years he couldn't dismiss the notion out of hand. Besides, there was something between them that wasn't "normal," whatever that meant, something that enabled them to reach out to each other and, against all odds, connect. It had happened often enough even Simon couldn't deny it was real anymore, and Jim had begun to accept the link as a tool he could tentatively rely on. If reaching Sandburg had just been about that, he would have thrown himself into the abyss between them with no hesitation.

          But there was the psychotropic drug to consider.

          He was fairly sure it was the drug, not the computer, that was playing havoc with their efforts to communicate, and he wasn't at all sure how it would affect either of them if he tried to step into Blair's version of reality. The compound could threaten them both with death or insanity, leave them drifting in some limbo-land, destroying their bond completely, or inflicting any number of other nebulous disasters on them.

          And the computer might kill them both anyway if it interpreted Jim's attempt to reach Blair as an attack on its "integrity."

          With all those objections ranged against it, the obvious answer was to wait and give Blair a chance to wield his so-touted flexibility and find his own way out of the situation. And that was exactly what Simon, Kelso and the rest would say, too, he was sure of that.

          But Jim couldn't shake the absolute certainty that Blair couldn't win alone. He had to do something, and this was all he had to offer. If he died, either in the simulation or afterward, dealing with the drug's side-effects, then he could accept that. What he couldn't accept was waiting around and not doing anything because he was afraid for his own life, especially when he knew that life wouldn't be worth living if Blair wasn't there to share it.

          Not that he would ever tell the anthropologist that, of course.

          Decision made, Ellison rolled over and deliberately sent himself to sleep, conveniently forgetting that climbing into Sandburg's mind meant the grad student would know what he meant to the Sentinel, whether Jim told him or not.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Blair stared at his reflection in the pond and sighed. Dirty didn't begin to describe how he looked, and the plant sap ground into his clothing was beginning to make him itch. God, what he'd give for a bath!

 _You'd think that if this is all in my own head, at least I could wrangle a comb from somewhere_. Although the state of his hair was admittedly the least of his worries right now. He was so far past tired he didn't even have a word for it, and he ached all over, sore from the unaccustomed activity. His side throbbed, the pain running up and down his ribcage and across his stomach with every jarring step, until there were times he had to grit his teeth against crying out. Time to take some more morphine from the medical kit.

          Pulling up his shirt, he inspected the bandage John had taped across the wound, grimacing when he saw its glossy whiteness beginning to dim to gray as heat, humidity and dirt had their say. Not to mention the blood beginning to spot the white padding. But it was only a small circle, and the grad student shrugged, letting his shirt drop to cover it. There was no point changing the bandages every time he bled a little – they didn't have the time, or the extra bandages. At least the antibiotic powder John had dusted over the injury should protect it from infection.

          The other members of the unit were all dead, scattered behind them over the last few hours of VC pursuit, and he and John were running for their lives, angling toward the theoretical location of the firebase.

          "Don't even think about drinking that," Lonetree warned as he joined the younger man. "Here." He handed Sandburg his canteen, and the anthropologist unscrewed the cap and took a hefty swig, then handed it back, trying not to notice how dry his mouth still was.

          "Have some more," John said, refusing the container with a shake of his head.

          Blair hesitated, then, measuring the content's weight, took another swallow, then frowned, glancing at the veteran. "Why is this thing more than half-full when I know I've come close to emptying it before now?"

          "Trade secret," the Native American smiled. "We Indians have mystical powers, you know."

          Too tired to snort, Sandburg settled for rolling his eyes. "Yeah, right. Wish you did." He had to fight to keep the exhaustion out of his voice, and he wasn't sure he'd succeeded. Glancing back the way they'd come, he took a breath. "We'd better get moving."

          "Soon," John agreed. "How's your side?"

          Blair shrugged and gritted his teeth against the wash of pain that resulted. "We don't have time to deal with it right now."

          "Yes, we do," Lonetree contradicted, shrugging off his backpack and kneeling to dig the medical field kit out. "Sit," he ordered, carefully filling a syringe from one of the small bottles nestled in the kit.

          Blair hesitated, then grimaced and sat, pulling his shirt down far enough to reveal his shoulder – he'd already found trying to roll up his muddy, sap-encrusted sleeves was a waste of time. He leaned back against a tree, trying to relax as the older man used a scrap of bandage to swap a spot clean, then slid the needle in and pushed the plunger down.

          "All right," John said, pulling out the needle and capping it before dropping it into a pocket of the kit. Wrapping his arm around the younger man's shoulders, he smiled at him. "Ready?"

          "I can stand up by myself," the anthropologist protested.

          "I know you can," Lonetree agreed, "but it's a whole lot easier with help. And faster," he added when the younger man opened his mouth.

          Blair sighed, knowing he'd been manipulated. "All right."

          A few minutes later they were both ready to go again. The Native slipped his backpack on, and touching Sandburg's shoulder, started down the path, the grad student following him.

          Trying to take his mind off the pain until the drug kicked in, Sandburg thought back to Jim, a subject he'd been thinking about a lot since the last failed communication.

          If he'd recently doubted how much he meant to the Sentinel, that "meeting" had answered all his questions. His friend had reached for him with no hesitation, and had held on with everything he had. Whatever had torn them apart was simply more powerful than either of them, and that very strength forced Blair's hopes of rescue to drop into the single digits.

_I'm going to die here._

          "No, you're not."

          Blair glanced up as John dropped back to walk beside him, studying the Native's grim expression. "I hope not."

          "But you think you will."

          Sandburg took a breath. "I'm not giving up, John. I just don't see a way out of this without help from outside, and I don't think anyone _can_ help."

          "Why not?" Lonetree met his gaze, and the anthropologist sighed at the determination he saw there.

          "Because I haven't woken up yet, and I know Jim's found me. That means the others are there, too – Simon, Joel, probably a doctor, maybe…" He had to halt to swallow. "…maybe Mom." He took a deep breath to steady himself, then continued. "If I haven't woken up yet, then that must mean waking me up will risk killing me, and no one's figured a way around that yet."

          "And?"

          "And I'm not sure I've got that much time left," he answered, the words as blunt as he could make them.

          "All right," John answered, halting and turning to face him, "you listen to me, Blair. You're going to live. You hear me? If you give up, then you've already lost, and you've let Jim and your other friends down. They're working overtime to help you, but their success depends on your determination to survive. If you give up too soon, you will die. You've got to have faith – in them, and in yourself. And in me."

          Blair blinked at him. "Wow, that's a real booster of a speech. All right, but I have to tell you, I don't know how far faith is going to carry me. But I'll do my best."

          "That's all anyone can ask," the Native said softly, leaning in to give him a quick hug. "Now, come on, let's get out of here before the VC come down on us."

          "Right behind you," the anthropologist replied, savoring the embrace as he fell into step behind the man, and wondering again just who John Lonetree really was.


	17. Chapter 17

          Jim ushered Naomi into the building, turning to pull the covering back over the splintered door. He paused to cast a brief glance at the sunrise, aware that when he saw it again he and his Guide would be on the other side of this experience, one way or the other.

          Turning back, he caught Naomi's thoughtful survey and looked away. She wasn't Blair, but she had all of her son's perceptiveness, and she could tell he'd reached a decision of some sort. He started for the long table sitting under the second lamp and she fell into step with him, the worry lines between her eyes deepening when the doctor stepped out of the darkness that surrounded the one lit section, clicking off his flashlight and setting it down on the table.

          Simon and Joel glanced up from their seats when Jim pulled out a chair for Naomi and seated her, then sat himself. Kelso rolled across the floor from the computer, his sober expression sending a chill down Ellison's spine.

          "Have some coffee," Simon offered, holding out the pot while Joel pushed over two cups. "It's fresh; just made it myself when I got here."

          The detective nodded, waiting until everyone had found their places and fixed their drinks, then said, "I have an idea."

          "Shoot," Simon answered, studying him. The others nodded, Naomi's gaze a little worried.

          "I want Harrington to hook me up to the computer and put me in with Blair."

          "What? Are you crazy?"

          "Absolutely not, Jim!"

          "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

          Jim winced, glad he'd tuned down his hearing before making the statement. Naomi and Kelso hadn't chimed in, and he glanced at them. "Nothing from you two?"

          Naomi shook her head, shaking back her hair in a move so reminiscent of Blair that the Sentinel had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. "No," she said, her concerned gaze on him. "You and Blair have something special together, and I trust you not to throw away your life uselessly."

          "Well, I don't!" Simon snorted, leaning forward to stare at his detective. "Jim, what're you thinking? The computer would kill you, and Blair, if you try this fool stunt. And you don't even know if it'll work!"

          "What makes you think you'd end up with Blair instead of in your own version of Vietnam?" Joel asked.

          "And then we'd have to worry about you as well as Sandburg," Simon gritted. "And then there's the effect of the drugs on you… No, Jim. Absolutely not."

          "It would work," Ellison replied, keeping his tone even with effort. "What we have–"

          "You're not God!" Simon snapped. "I know you and the kid have something special. I can't deny that. But trying to climb into his head on an ordinary day is hard enough without adding drugs and a computer!"

          The detective glanced at Kelso, who was sitting with his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled, watching everyone with a neutral look the ex-military operative recognized as the "game face" all those in special ops learned early on. "What about you?" he asked.

          Jack folded his hands on the table and glanced around, his gaze skipping from person to person. "I think it's worth trying." He held up a hand before Banks could explode again. "Hear me out, Captain. I know what Jim and Blair have with each other, and who they are." He saw the startled looks and smiled thinly. "I am ex-CIA. I researched Blair and Jim after our first meeting, curious why Brackett would be interested in them. And yes," he added as Simon opened his mouth, "I kept up on that situation as it developed – I still have contacts in the business, and Brackett needed watching, so I did. I think Jim's idea might have a chance."

          Simon and Joel exchanged glances, Banks then shifting to look around the group with a frown. "Since we're all one happy family now, we can drop the masquerade. What makes you think a Sentinel can survive this experience any better than Sandburg, let alone reach him?"

          The doctor opened his mouth, but Joel leaned over and whispered to him and the man nodded, leaning back in his chair, prepared to wait for an explanation.

          "Because the CIA did a lot of experiments with psychic phenomena," Kelso said bluntly. "I don't know whether Jim and Blair have developed anything that blatant between them, but whether they have or not, the fact remains that they're Sentinel and Guide, and that alone gives them a bond they can work with. And as for Jim's surviving…" He studied Ellison for a long moment, then continued. "I don't know that he can, but _together_ I think he and Blair can beat a lot of odds. I'd say it's worth the chance."

          "Does that mean you don't think Blair can do it alone?" Joel asked, frowning.

          "What I think," Jack said carefully, glancing at Naomi, "is that Blair's exhausted and injured, and even with an imaginary companion, he's running out of options. And I think he knows it, too."

          Jim studied the ex-agent, alerted by a faint note in the man' voice. Kelso had been the only one of them there all night, except for the doctor and Harrington, and the detective's eyes narrowed. Had Blair said something about this?

          Jack shifted, glancing across at Jim, holding his gaze a fraction longer than necessary, and Ellison nodded slightly.

          "I don't like it," Simon said, his jaw muscles bunched. "I've already got one friend's life on the line, I'm not willing to risk another's for what's probably a wild goose chase. Even if this crazy idea has a chance of working, it's all for nothing if the computer can't handle a double hookup." He switched his stare from Ellison to Kelso. "What're the odds of that?"

          Jack shrugged. "I'm not sure, let's ask the expert. Harrington!" he called, raising his voice. "Come over here!"

          So summoned, the man pushed back his chair and stood, making his way over to the group, the uniformed officer a shadow at his back. "Yes?"

          "Can a second person be hooked up to the computer at the same time Sandburg is?"

          Randy blinked at them, frowning. "Yes, theoretically there shouldn't be a problem, but why–?" His gaze lighted on Jim and he smiled. "Detective, are you thinking to join your partner? By all means–"

          "Is it possible to do safely?" Simon barked, drawing Harrington's gaze back to him.

          "Oh, certainly. Certainly," the man answered, shifting from one foot to the other. "At least on a theoretical level. Oh, this is so exciting. I've never had a Sentinel as a subject before! This will mean–"

          "He's _not_ a subject!" Joel snarled, standing up beside the man, his greater height allowing him to loom over the scientist. "And neither is Blair! So just tell us if it's possible to hook Jim up without the computer killing him!"

          "Ah, yes. Yes, I think so," Harrington answered, staring up at the larger man with wide eyes. "But a Sentinel–"

          "Then get on with it!" Ellison ordered, standing. "I'm doing this, Simon," he said in reply to the captain's glare, "with or without your okay. I'm not leaving Blair alone in there any longer." He held the man's gaze until Banks looked away, then stood and moved off to join Kelso a short distance from the group.

          "What gives?" Jim asked lowly, watching as Joel seated himself beside Naomi, engaging her in conversation.

          "Something Blair said last night that I think you should hear," Kelso answered, handing him a set of headphones plugged into the computer.

          Jim donned the headgear and nodded to the ex-agent, who pushed a button. Blair's voice sounded in the Sentinel's ears, a mere thread of speech he listened to in silence, his jaw tightening. Done, he removed the headphones and handed them back, nodding to the man. "Thanks."

          Jack nodded and ejected the tape, storing it in a shirt pocket. "No problem. I also have a suggestion." He waited until the detective looked at him, then continued. "I suggest when you try this you visualize yourself dressed as you would be going into this kind of situation, including a backpack with supplies, canteen, etc."

          Jim's eyebrows hiked. "Can that work?"

          Kelso shrugged. "Hey, this is all in the mind, Detective. I don't see a reason why it shouldn't. Being prepared for jungle warfare should give both of you a better chance of surviving this whole experience than if you end up over there dressed like you are."

          "Good point," the Sentinel granted. "All right, I'll give it a try. Thanks."

          "No problem." The ex-agent glanced past him, then met his eyes. "Maybe you'd be better off getting some rest, or eating something, while they get all this set up."

          Ellison glanced behind himself, watching Harrington typing furiously at the computer, and grimaced. Joel was still talking with Naomi, Simon standing off to one side, sharing a discussion with the doctor. "Maybe so," he said. "How long do you think it'll take?"

          Kelso shrugged. "A couple of hours, I'd guess, but that's all it is. Harrington has to do some programming work, we need to hook up connections to the consoles, probably have to get another hospital cot for you to lie on, and the doctor might have to get some supplies as well."

          Jim grimaced. "I'm going for a walk." He paced past all the groups, casting a quick glance at Blair, who was in one of his sleep modes at the moment, and then pushed through the coverings draped over the doorway, stepping into sunlight and a cool morning.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The cot felt strange under him, the one sheet rough against his skin. He squinted against the overhead light, knowing that once he was under the drugs they would turn it off, just as they had with Blair. His wrists and ankles were bound with the same padded cuffs as held the anthropologist, a similar strap across his forehead, and he reined in the urge to struggle. The damn things brought back too many memories of being held prisoner in some way, and he was briefly glad Sandburg had been unconscious when Harrington had hooked him up. Blair had too many memories of being tied up as it was.

          The IV needles had been set, and the drug would be added as soon as he gave the word. He could feel the light touch of the sensory net on his hair, and his ears were already plugged with wax around the earpieces, but the recording wouldn't start running until the drug was in his system. His gaze shifted to Rivers, standing on his left side, beside the dripping IV, and he almost smiled at the sour expression the man wore. The physician didn't like the idea, and had fought it tooth and nail, especially after he understood what being a Sentinel really meant. But he'd given in when it became clear Jim was committed to doing it, with or without a doctor's supervision. And Ellison had to admit, he was glad the man was standing by. It made him feel a little bit safer.

          He looked over to Kelso, who gave him a thumbs up and a sober smile. "Good luck, Jim."

          The words were a little muffled, but very understandable, and the Sentinel smiled.

          "You be careful," Simon said gruffly, stepping closer to stand at his feet, Joel by his side. "Both of you."

          "Go get Blair, Jim," Taggert added. "And both of you come back, you hear?"

          Jim managed to nod the tiniest bit, feeling the strap press against his forehead when he did. "I will," he answered, then glanced up at Naomi, who stood beside him. "I'll keep that promise."

          She shook her head, tears standing in her eyes. "I want both of you back safely, Jim Ellison. You just remember that."

          He swallowed, their conversation from earlier that morning clear in his mind.

_"Blair was a very happy child, growing up," she commented to him. "And I believe he's become a very balanced adult, walking his own path the way he wanted. I'm glad of that, very glad."_

_Jim looked down at her, the knowledge that he might never see her again allowing him to say things he'd never thought he would. "Blair's taught me a lot about life and how to live it. But I know you worry about him, working with me, and I'm sorry about that."_

_"It wasn't what I would've chosen for him," she admitted. "No mother wants her child in danger. But it's his life, and his choice, and he's happy doing what he's doing – being Guide to your Sentinel. I can't ask for anything more than that." She looked up at him, her gaze clear. "And I certainly couldn't ask for him to have a better friend."_

_Ellison blushed, but managed to meet her eyes. "Thanks, Naomi. That means a lot to me. And I will bring him back; I promise you that."_

_"Just so you remember that you're important to me, too," she warned him. "You're family now, Jim, and you always will be. So bring yourself back, too."_

          "I will," he answered her, aware that his reply echoed in both the past and the present, and knowing when she nodded she recognized the duality as well. He glanced around once more, then focused on Kelso. "I'm ready."

          Kelso nodded to Harrington, who typed in a command, and Jim saw the drug begin to seep into his left IV, quickly joining the liquid in sliding down to his arm. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, concentrating on Blair and trying to touch that so-elusive connection that bound them to each other.


	18. Chapter 18

          "Urghk," Jim coughed, pushing himself up from the dirt, his visualized backpack now a heavy reality. The heat was overwhelming, a wet blanket of hot air that threatened to suffocate him with the thick melange of jungle scents. "God," he mumbled, brushing himself off and looking around at the thick tropical growth, "they sure got the heat and humidity right. And the smell." He paused, working to turn down the dial. It had been too long since he'd been in this kind of environment, and he was out of practice dealing with the crushing intensity of the sensory input.

          He shifted his shoulders to settle the backpack and glanced down. He smiled at the camouflage clothing he wore. The canteen on his belt was full, and he lifted a hand to cradle the H7K MP5 slung across his chest.

          "…crazy. How can they be ahead of us and all around us?"

          Jim took a breath, glad joy spiking through him. It was Blair. But never in his life with his friend, not even in some of their worst times, had he ever heard the note of exhaustion that was so clear now. He could also hear the worn despair in the voice, and the buried fear. He set his teeth, determination surging through him. By God, all that was going to change. He started toward the trail he could see winding through the jungle growth ahead of him, watching his footing carefully as old training slid automatically into place.

          "They're not really," a man's voice answered, something in it tugging at Jim with its familiarity. "But the booby traps make it look like it. And some VC might be coming from other directions. But we're doing pretty well so far. I remember the sergeant saying we should reach another set of caves soon. We can stop there and rest for a bit."

          "That's good," Blair answered, and Ellison could hear the smile in his Guide's voice. "I'll just pretend jungles like this have caves of that sort."

          "That's right," the stranger agreed. "You always have to seize the moment."

          Jim reached the path and, deciding he couldn't have a better cue than that, stepped into the middle of it as Blair and his companion turned the curve and saw him.

          Sandburg stopped dead, the blood draining from his face. "Jim? Ohmigod. They got you, too?"

          Ellison started to answer, but found he had to stop to clear his throat. "No," he said a little hoarsely, "we found a way I could get here to help." He took a step toward Blair, who took a step backward.

          "How do I know you're real?" he demanded, staring at the Sentinel. "Maybe I just called you up and you're another mirage." His voice cracked on the last word, and he paused, licking his suddenly-dry lips. "I don't think I could take that," he added, the words very low. "So just– Just go away, okay?"

          Jim took a very deep breath. "Chief, it's really me."

          When the anthropologist just stared at him, unmoving, he held out his hands, palm up. "Blair, think about it. You knew when there was something unusual about John here." He nodded at the man without shifting his gaze from his partner. "So listen to me when I tell you I'm as real as you are."

          "How do you know about John?" Blair's voice was hard and wary, and Jim sighed, a little at a loss. He'd never expected Sandburg to doubt him, and even though he understood the man's reasons, the skepticism still hurt a little.

          "That can wait," Lonetree said calmly, resting a hand on Blair's rigid arm. "He's real, Blair."

          The grad student glanced at John, then back to Jim. "How can you tell? I could make a vision of Jim real, and make it work, so how the hell do you know?" He clenched his fists, and the Sentinel swallowed at the struggle in his friend's eyes as hope fought with fear.

          The Native American shrugged. "Because he is. Listen to yourself; believe what you find."

          The anthropologist studied Ellison, and Jim, watching the play of emotions across the younger man's expressive face as he slowly limped closer, realized that Blair did believe him; he was just too scared to lower the barriers of doubt and suspicion that had kept him alive so far.

          At last his Guide stood in front of him, and the Sentinel gritted his teeth against the urge to grab him up in an enthusiastic hug. The ball was in Sandburg's court now, and there was no rushing it.

          Blair met Jim's eyes, his own very intent, and for a long moment they stood there like that, until the grad student took a deep breath and let it out, his shoulders relaxing. "Yeah," he said softly, "I guess you're real."

          Jim put his hands on his friend's shoulders, the move careful, and then, when the younger man didn't pull away, tugged him into a hug. Blair folded into the embrace, his own response fierce and a little desperate. "God, Jim," he whispered, "I thought–"

          "I know," the Sentinel said softly, resting his chin on Sandburg's head. "I know what you thought. But I'm here now, and together we'll get out of this."

          Blair nodded, not moving out of his arms, and Jim swallowed at the trust in the move. Looking over his Guide's head, he met John's gaze, bracing himself for ridicule, but the man's smile had nothing of mockery in it, only a kind of wistful gladness.

          "Hey," Ellison said softly, looking down at the grad student, "we need to talk."

          Sandburg took a breath, then released him and stepped away as Jim let him go. Fixing the detective with a sober stare, he said, "Yeah, I guess we do. What happened to me? Where am I? In the real world, I mean. Why're you here? How'd you get here? What do we need to do? How can we get out? Are you–?"

          "Sandburg!" both Jim and John said in unison. Ellison blinked at Lonetree, surprised into sharing a small grin with the man.

          Blair stopped, blinking from one to the other. "See?" he said to John. "I told you that you sounded a lot like Jim sometimes. So come on, man," he said, swinging back to the Sentinel, "spill! You've got a lot of talking to do!"

          "Not here," John cut in, and Ellison nodded. "But those caves should be right around here. We can hole up there to discuss all this."

          "Sounds good to me," the detective agreed, glancing back at his friend, his eyes widening as he finally took in the real appearance of the man. "You look like hell, Chief!"

          "Took you long enough to notice," Blair muttered with a smile. "Come on, let's move." He started down the trail and Jim frowned at the younger man's practiced hobble. Following, he jumped when Lonetree fell into step with him.

          "He's not as bad as he looks," the Native American commented, glancing sideways at the Sentinel.

          "I hope not," Jim replied, keeping his voice low enough Blair couldn't hear him. "But he doesn't look good, that's for sure."

          John shook his head. "No, he's not, but he'll be fine once he gets out of here."

          Ellison nodded, keeping an eye on the grad student as he skirted a bush, noting the almost casual expertise in the move. "You've taught him a lot about this kind of warfare."

          It wasn't a question, but the older man shrugged. "Some. He's a fast learner."

          The detective heard the pride behind the statement and glanced at the man. "Yeah, he is," he agreed, then frowned. "I know I've never seen you before," he commented, aware he was echoing Blair's words, "but there's something familiar about you."

          John studied him, a small smile quirking his lips. "You're a Sentinel, so I guess that shouldn't surprise me."

          He stepped out ahead of Jim, obviously leaving the conversation behind, and Ellison grimaced, quickly catching up again. "I'm not that easy to avoid," he warned. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

          "Obviously you know something of what's happened between myself and Blair," Lonetree answered, glancing sideways at Jim as they both walked forward to join Blair where he stood, waiting for them. "So you probably know he's asked me those questions too. I'm sorry, Detective, but you don't get the answers either. For now just accept that I'm a friend of Blair's from a long time ago; a friend of yours as well, if you'll have me on those terms."

          Jim met the smiling blue eyes, his own frown deepening as the sense of familiarity grew stronger. "All right," he agreed as they neared the anthropologist. "For now," he added.

          "I can't ask for anything more," John responded, halting by Blair and clasping him on the shoulder. "The caves should be around this hill, I think. How's the shoulder and the side?" he asked the younger man, and Jim stiffened, remembering what he'd almost forgotten in the excitement of his arrival.

          "What happened to your shoulder and side?"

          The question garnered him an exasperated glance from the anthropologist. "I got shot," was the short answer. "And it feels about like it did the last time you asked," he commented to John.

          "Which is?" Lonetree queried, leading them around the hill into a meadow that ran straight into a cliff. The dark mouth of a cave was clear to see on one side, and the three started toward it.

          "They hurt," Blair said curtly, jumping when staccato shots echoed some way behind them. "And I'd really prefer _not_ to add to them," he remarked, quickening his pace.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Settled at last, the cave cool around them, Jim looked at Blair. "Okay, first I want to see those injuries."

          Sandburg rolled his eyes. "Jim, they're fine. John took care of them. And I've got lots of questions–"

          "Now," his partner stated, reaching for the younger man's shirt.

          The anthropologist rolled his eyes, but lifted his arms when the Sentinel started to pull up his shirt.

          The quiet surrender told Jim a lot about his friend's true state of mind, and he frowned as he tugged the article over Blair's head. The strip of bandage across the younger man's shoulder was gray with dust, but had obviously been changed recently. Carefully prying lose the tape at one end, the ex-Ranger lifted the padding to reveal a bloody furrow sliced through the man's skin. It was already healing, and he could see the telltale grains scattered across it. Glancing across at John, he asked, "Antibiotic powder?"

          The Native American nodded. "Happened when he got here."

          Jim could just imagine that event, and the images of flying bullets, shouts, screams and the chaos that was a firefight blossomed through his mind. Trust Sandburg to end up in the middle of one the instant he arrived.

          "I'm fine, Jim," Blair said softly, and the detective's throat tightened at the automatic understanding of his feelings in the comment, something so much ignored the weeks before, and so very much missed the last few days.

          "Good," he answered, clearing his throat as he secured the bandage again and moved down to the larger patch covering his friend's side. Undoing it, his lips tightened and he stared at the two bullet holes in Sandburg's side, one bigger than the other.

          "In and out," he commented, trying to swallow through a suddenly dry throat. "Right through the fatty part of your side. Lucky he missed." _Just a few inches lower or deeper, and it would've shattered a rib, punctured a lung, penetrated his intestines…_

          "It doesn't feel like he missed," Blair muttered.

          "Believe me, he missed," Jim said grimly.

          Lonetree nodded, and the Sentinel saw the muscles in his jaw jerk. "Yes," the man answered, "he did. But he tripped on a branch, and Blair heard him and moved."

          "Too bad I didn't move faster," Sandburg grumbled, and the detective heard his teeth clench as the older man probed the wound. "Hey, Jim, this isn't real real, just real here, right?"

          "Right," the Sentinel agreed after a second to translate. "Did he have morphine?" he asked Lonetree.

          "Some," the man answered, meeting Jim's eyes when he glanced up. "Good painkiller and it doesn't hinder his response time much."

          "Right," Ellison answered after a brief pause. _I get it. Blair hasn't been under morphine before, so he doesn't know its effects, except that it's a painkiller. Since this is all in his mind, it won't affect him except how he thinks it will._

          "Okay," Sandburg answered, pulling his shirt back on after Jim finished and leaning carefully back against the wall. "So talk already!"

          The detective looked from Sandburg to John and back. "Where do you want me to start? It's a long story."

          Blair frowned. "I guess I should start. Monday morning– What day is it now?"

          "Saturday," Jim answered, meeting the wide-eyed stare with a steady one of his own.

          "Yikes," his Guide murmured. "Guess my time and real time aren't matching up very well."

          "Not very," Ellison said soberly.

          "Anyway, Monday morning I was heading over to meet you and Simon for the meeting, and I stopped in a café–"

          "To have some tea," Jim finished for him. "Linda Dixon met you there, put something in your drink, and she and someone else grabbed you between there and the bus stop."

          Sandburg blinked at him. "You must've retraced my path."

          "Yeah," Jim agreed, his lips tight as he remembered that morning. "I did. Want me to go on?"

          "Yeah," the anthropologist answered, settling himself more comfortably. "I always did love stories."

          Jim sighed, glancing at John, who smiled at him. "He's a handful, isn't he?"

          "You have no idea," the detective muttered, then reconsidered. "On the other hand, maybe you do."

          John's smile widened to a small grin. "Go on, Detective, tell us the story."

          "I'll have to back up about five months, then," Ellison commented, reorganizing events in his head. "Back when you were teaching that class with Linda Dixon."

          Twenty minutes later he finished, and in the dazed silence that followed he pulled his canteen off his belt to chug down a few swallows, restraining himself from draining the container by an act of will. He'd forgotten how jungle heat dried him out.

          "And you hooked yourself up on that kind of evidence?" Blair finally asked, staring at his friend. "Jim, that's crazy, man! The drug alone might kill you, not to mention jumping in here, and what if you hadn't managed to link in and land here with me? You would've been stuck in your own version of Vietnam! And–"

          "Sandburg!" The Sentinel half-expected to share the exclamation with John again, but when he glanced over it was to find the Native watching them both with a thoughtful expression.

          "It's true!" Blair shot back, his lips tight. "And you know it! And as your Guide, I have to tell you, it was a stupid idea!"

          "It worked," Ellison said shortly. "Can we get on with this?"

          "It was sheer chance that it worked, man! It might not have, and then where would we be?"

          "We?" Jim growled. "What–" He bit down on the last word, suddenly recognizing the conversation, and Blair dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders slumping. "Oh, man," he said quietly. "And here I thought I'd gotten past this. I'm sorry, Jim. You risked your life for me, and all I can do is yell at you."

          The detective sighed, reaching back to massage his tense neck. "It's a hard habit to break, Chief. I'm sorry, too. I should've listened to you back then. I shouldn't have ignored you the last few weeks, either. I should've been there for you when this all started. Maybe if I had, it wouldn't have gone this far."

          "Don't go there, man," Sandburg warned, lifting his head. "From what you said, Harrington would've gotten me one way or another anyway; you couldn't have stopped it. No guilt games. I've been hounding you to listen to me for weeks, and I went overboard. You've been ignoring me for weeks, and you went overboard. We lost the balance somewhere, and now we have to get it back. That's all there is to it. And we better get it right, because we might not get a second chance."

          Jim nodded, chilled by the man's sober words. He held out his hand. "Friends?"

          "No," Blair answered, reaching out to take it, "partners."

          Ellison took a long breath, feeling something in himself relax. "Partners," he agreed, aware of John smiling in the corner.

"So you mean they can hear our voices?" Blair questioned, glancing out the cave mouth when the report of a single shot made them all look up.

          "That was a ways off," Lonetree commented, his gaze fixed outside.

          "Yeah," Ellison answered, handing Sandburg a pouch from his backpack.

          "That's kinda cool, and kinda eerie at the same time," Sandburg observed, accepting the packet, but not looking at it. "I mean, I said things over the past few days I'm not sure I'd want everyone to hear."

          "Don't worry about it, Chief," the detective advised, stretching out his legs and leaning back. "We're all your friends."

          "Yeah, I suppose so," the anthropologist agreed, taking out a knife to cut the end off the pouch. It was such an absentminded move, done with such expertise, that the Sentinel had to stop and watch with appreciation. "At least it'll make communication between us easier, one way, anyway."

          "What do you mean?" Jim asked, abruptly remembering to hand John a pouch as well. The Native American took it without looking away from the scene outside, and the ex-Ranger chose his own pouch and dug out his knife.

          "Well, like this," Blair replied, scrabbling through the pouch's contents to dig out the promised meal. "Simon, could you guys turn down the amount of that drug in my system? I'm not going to try breaking out again, so I don't need the double dose. I'd kinda like to graduate, if you know what I mean."

          "Sandburg," Ellison growled, staring at him, "what the hell're you doing?"

          "Hey, man, I know it sounds pretty weird, but we can use all the weapons we've got, and communication, even one way, is a damn good one."

          The detective grimaced, squeezing out the first of the spaghetti and meatballs mix and staring at it with no appetite. "You're right," he admitted, "but it makes me nervous. I'm here or I'm there, and I'd prefer to think of it that way."

          The grad student glanced up and grinned. "That's because I'm breaking the fourth wall, and that's a real cultural no-no, but in this case, I think it's justified."

          "'Fourth wall'?" Jim repeated, putting the MRE down and shoving it out of the way. "Do I really want to know about this, Sandburg?"

          "Probably not," the anthropologist answered, still smiling. "It just means I'm not pretending like this is real. And speaking of that, I think the way to get through this game a whole lot more efficiently is to use your senses. I know with the sensory barrage of this environment that could be difficult, but–"

          "Chief, this place isn't real, I can't use my senses here," Ellison pointed out, picking up the package of gum that had dropped out of the pouch and munching on them.

          Blair blinked at him. "It's real enough. You're here, right? That means you can use your senses."

          "But you just got through saying it's _not_ real," the Sentinel replied, aware of John shifting position so he could watch outside and the two of them at the same time. "My senses are something that works in the physical world, not here."

          His Guide studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. "You're being too literal. Just because this is in our minds doesn't mean you aren't a Sentinel here. I'm still a Guide, a shaman, after all."

          "That's different," Ellison said stubbornly, straightening. "Being a shaman means you work with weird stuff like this all the time. But I work in the real world, not anywhere else."

          Blair took a long breath, trying not to let his frustration with the conversation show. "Jim–" His gaze fell on the gum the other man was still holding and he smiled. "You like that brand?"

          The ex-Ranger blinked, caught off-stride. "Yeah, Sandburg, I do. What does that have to do with anything?"

          "Balance, Detective," John murmured.

          Ellison opened his mouth for a quick retort, then took a deep breath. "Yeah, balance. What does my liking gum have to do with my being a Sentinel, Chief?"

          The younger man smiled at him, and Jim felt his shoulders relax. "It has everything to do with it," Blair replied, leaning forward, then wincing back when the move pulled at his side injury. "You chose the gum over everything else in that pouch, simply because you like it. At the same time, by your own rationale, the spaghetti with meatballs that you decided not to eat, and the gum, aren't real, and it shouldn't make a difference. But it did. That shows that you can act as if something here is real, and enjoy it, or not. And that means that your senses are real here, too, if you want them to be." He paused, then added when the detective didn't immediately reply, "And we really need them to be real, Jim."

          The older man sighed, hearing a throbbing purr behind him as a sleek shadow slipped past him, vanishing into the depths of the cave. "All right, Sandburg. You've convinced me. And since we're finished eating, what do we do next? I know we can't stay here all day."

          "You're right," John agreed, glancing sideways at them. "I've watched three groups of VC pass on the trail we were on since we got here. None of them even looked at this cave, so I don't think they were tracking us, but you can bet they will be soon. We need to get out of here before some turn up who do notice our tracks and decide to trap us in here."

          "Good point," Ellison grunted, standing and reaching a hand down to Blair, who, between the Sentinel's aid and Lonetree's, managed to find his feet, albeit shakily.

          "Oh boy," the anthropologist commented, shaking his head. "I think they turned down the drug; things feel different."

          "That's good, right?" the detective asked, putting a hand on his Guide's shoulder to steer him toward the cave entrance.

          "Yeah, I think so," the younger man nodded. At the opening, he paused to peer out, sighing. "Still got several hours of daylight before sunset," he said. "Guess we'd better use them."

          "Might as well," Jim agreed. "John, do you want to take point or cover our six?"

          "I'm flexible, Detective," the older man shrugged, not looking away from the trail outside.

          "Make it Jim," Ellison answered, "and I'll take point, then. Chief, you stay between us, all right?"

          "Sure," Blair said tiredly. "I think that food's already wearing off," he added. "One of the drawbacks to it not being real, I guess. After this is over, and we're back home, you owe me a big, thick steak."

          "Done," the Sentinel responded, leading the way out of the cave and toward the trail.

          "I'll hold you to that," the younger man muttered, following him.


	19. Chapter 19

          "Oh, boy," the anthropologist breathed, watching Jim check out the booby trap and start back to join them, placing his feet with cautious precision. "That makes what, eleven, since we started?"

          "Thirteen," John corrected, his voice low. "There's more on this stretch than we've seen before."

          "And it's already past dark," Blair commented, trying to focus past his own exhaustion in the quickly darkening jungle. "Will that group behind us ever quit so we can rest?"

          John shrugged, and the younger man sighed. "Damn, I can see why no one's survived this stretch so far."

          "Follow me," Ellison ordered, halting beside him and wiping off the sweat trickling down his face, then starting off again.

          The other two fell into place behind him, each man careful to step into the footprints leading around the trap and back to the trail.

          "Let's stop here," Blair said when they had all reached the path. "We need to talk."

          "Sandburg, that group of VC is right behind us; if we stop they'll have us for supper." Jim glanced back at his friend. "We have to stay ahead of them."

          "Running around in circles isn't going to get us out of this," the grad student replied, halting where he stood. The other two stopped as well, looking back.

          "Chief–"

          "No," the younger man insisted, staring at them, "this isn't doing us any good. There's too many of them, and too many traps. It's too late and too dark. We're fighting a losing battle this way – we need to change our strategy."

          Jim snorted, but Lonetree cocked his head at the anthropologist. "What do you have in mind?"

          "We set up an ambush for the guys following us," Blair answered, his expression set. "If we catch them in a crossfire, maybe it'll kill enough of them to give us some time to work our way through enough traps to get ahead of the rest."

          Ellison and John exchanged glances, and the Sentinel was sure they were both thinking the same thing. The plan was desperate, with little chance of success, and since Blair had no weapon, he was the most vulnerable of them all to being killed in such an attack. Jim was about to say so when John caught his eye, something in the man's gaze forcing him to pause and look at his partner more closely.

          Sandburg stood with his feet braced for balance, his head up and expression set, and Jim studied him. The younger man's eyes were intense, but the depth usually underlying their expression was lacking, and they reminded the detective of light blue marbles, as cold and featureless as slate. Trying to look past that barrier was impossible, and the older man suddenly realized that the block was deliberate. And it wasn't just physical. The anthropologist's mind was unreadable, a wall sheer as granite meeting the Sentinel's attempt to reach past it.

          "That's not like you, Chief," he said, edging toward the grad student. "You're not the gung-ho type most of the time."

          Blair shrugged, and only because the Sentinel was watching so closely did he see how his friend's balance shivered at the move.

          "It's not real, so what does it matter? Come on, let's find a good place and set it up."

          Jim stepped forward again. "Okay, but only on one condition."

          The grad student eyed him warily but didn't move as the detective inched closer. "What's that?"

          "You let me in first," Ellison declared, reaching to wrap a hand around his Guide's arm.

          Blair jerked back, but his already shaky balance betrayed him and one leg gave under him. He caught himself before he hit the ground, but by then the Sentinel had slid an arm around his back, carefully avoiding the side injury, and when the grad student found his feet again he was secure in the older man's embrace.

          "You thought I wouldn't see it," Jim chided, holding the smaller man easily.

          "Let me go!" Sandburg twisted, but his struggles were weak and the detective ignored them. "Jim–"

          "Let me in."

          Blair stopped fighting and shook his head, not looking at him. "No."

          "What did you think," Ellison asked, feeling the tremors running through the younger man, "that I wouldn't notice how tired you were? Time's up, Chief. Let me in."

          "No."

          Jim took a breath and held it, hearing the VC moving down the trail. Anger, sudden and swift, surged through him. "You were hoping they'd kill you, weren't you?" he snapped. He felt the answer, strong despite the barriers the shaman could still use. "Damn it, Blair, why would you do that?"

          The anthropologist shook his head, staring blindly down the path. "Only way."

          "What was the only way?" Ellison asked, gentling his approach. The VC had stopped and seemed to be making camp.

          "For you and John. Only way."

          The words were slurred, and the Sentinel frowned, looking down at his friend. "Chief?"

          "It's the only way!" Blair snarled, suddenly focused on him. "Can't you feel it, Jim? My mind's slipping. I can't think straight. I'm losing it, man! That drug's finally doing me in, and I'll be damned if I drag both of you down with me! This is the only way!"

          "You thought that if you blocked both of us out we might have a chance, even if you died," John finished, stepping closer.

          Sandburg transferred his overly-bright gaze to the Native and nodded. "Yes! If I do it now, while I can still hold on, there's a chance!" He twisted fiercely in the ex-Ranger's grasp. "Let me go, Jim!"

          "No," the older man grated.

          "Jim, please."

          "No!" he snapped. Blair's struggles were already dying, and soon his Guide stood silent in his grasp, his eyes closed, leaning almost all his weight on the detective. "No," he repeated, loosening one hand to stroke through the younger man's hair. "You're my partner, my friend, either we all go together, or not at all."

          Blair opened eyes which were bright with tears. "Damn it, Jim, don't you see? I can't do that. I can't _live_ with that. I'm your Guide, or I'm supposed to be. You're not supposed to die here, for me. Or John, either," he added, glancing at the older man. "You've both got better things to do then hang around waiting for the inevitable. So please, please, let me do this!"

          The two older men exchanged glances, agreeing and acting without words. Jim shifted so Lonetree could reach the anthropologist, and the Native leaned over, touching Blair's forehead.

          Blair sucked in a startled breath, then his eyes slid closed and he slumped, unconscious. Ellison bent and slipped an arm behind his friend's knees and stood, hefting the slighter man's weight with ease. "Guess Sandburg's not the only shaman around here. Thanks."

          John shrugged. "It was easier than you punching him out."

          "On both of us," the detective agreed, looking down at the dark head nestled against his shoulder. He shook his head and turned down the path again. "Who would've thought he'd come up with that for a solution. What made him even think it would work?"

          Lonetree sighed. "He's been on the go for more than five days now. Even with the kind of sleep the computer's been giving him, he's still suffering from sleep deprivation."

          "That's probably true," Jim mused, ducking a tree branch. "I hope the computer doesn't have a problem with his 'sleeping' now."

          John lifted a shoulder and let it drop. "Me, too. We'll see. But you know, he did have a point. We can't keep outrunning the VC, not at the rate they're overtaking us."

          Ellison was silent, skirting a bush with care. "No, we can't," he agreed after a moment. "You have any ideas?"

          "One," the Native American answered. "Blair won't like it."

          "I didn't think he would," the ex-Ranger said wryly. "What is it?"

          "I'll tell you later," the older man promised. "In the meantime, let me carry him so you can do what you do and find us a safe camp."

          "Sounds good to me," Jim agreed, wondering about his own ease as he handed the sleeping anthropologist off to Lonetree without hesitation and turned to study the path again, leading them slowly into the night.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Uhh!" Blair jerked awake, wincing as his side twinged.

          "Take it easy, Chief," Jim advised, resting his hand against the Guide's back until the younger man relaxed. "How do you feel?"

          Sandburg yawned, then rubbed his face with his hands and looked up again. "A little better. Really tired, but at least things aren't blurring around the edges anymore."

          "That's good," the detective sighed. Pulling out a MRE, he handed it to the younger man. "Go ahead; we already ate."

          Sandburg took it with a nod and pulled out his knife, slicing the corner off the pouch and dumping the contents on the ground in front of him. Sorting through the resulting pile, he chose one package and sliced it open, grimacing at the spaghetti label. "My kingdom for a microwave," he muttered. "And a bath."

          Munching with determination, he looked back at Jim, then around the small camp, dawnlit as the sun started to edge over the hills. His gaze lingered on the Native American, who sat a few feet away, his M-16 laid ready across his lap.

          "Pity," John observed, glancing at him. "I hoped you'd sleep more. Three hours isn't much of a catch-up for you."

          Blair shrugged. "Better than none, I guess. I think the computer woke me up." He took a breath, sighing it out through his nose. "You weren't supposed to do that, you know."

          "It was that or have Jim knock you out," Lonetree answered. "I thought my way was easier."

          The grad student grimaced, laying aside the empty pouch and opening another. "Physically, maybe. I just wish you'd found another way to convince me. But I didn't leave you much choice." He lifted one shoulder, taking a few swallows from the canteen the Native American handed him before returning it. "So, where are we now?"

          "About two miles from where we were last night," Ellison answered, glancing at him. "We lost that group of VC, but we're sure to pick up another one soon."

          Blair digested this, then said, "So we're still where we were last night in terms of strategy."

          "Which brings us to my idea," John commented.

          "I'll get us ready to go," Ellison remarked, standing. "You done with that stuff, Chief?" he asked, indicating the pile of open packages beside the younger man.

          "Sure," Sandburg replied absently, shoving the pile toward him, his gaze on Lonetree. "What's your idea?"

          "We split up," the Native said, his gaze steady on the younger man. "I'll lead them off, and the two of you make a run for the base."

          Blair took a deep breath, then another. "You mean sacrifice yourself for us."

          John shifted position until he sat facing the younger man, then, after glancing at Ellison and getting a nod, he laid the weapon aside, making sure it was within easy reach. "Blair, I'm here to make sure you get home safely. That's the only reason I'm here. I'm a spirit, remember? I can't be hurt, or killed, but you can. If I can protect you by doing this, I will."

          The Guide took a deep breath. "I don't want you to go."

          Jim focused on buckling his backpack, trying to give the two men what privacy he could and swallowing at the wistful tone of his friend's voice.

          "I know that," the Native replied, reaching to briefly touch the grad student's shoulder. Jim heard the faint strain as the Native fought to keep his voice steady. "And it means more to me than you know, but I'll be keeping an eye on you."

          "I thought you said you've been doing that," Blair teased, trying to smile.

          John's lips quirked. "I did. But I had other things to do while you grew up, so I checked in less often. I thought your life would settle down when you hit college, but I see I was wrong."

          Blair dipped his head, his cheeks going rosy.

          "So I'll be around," Lonetree promised, moving to stand.

          The anthropologist rose with him, and the two men faced each other for a long moment, until Blair offered his hand to John, who took it, abruptly pulling the grad student into a hard hug, then releasing him and striding over to Jim.

          "Good meeting you, Jim," he said, meeting the detective's gaze. "I'm glad you're there for each other. Take care of him – as best you can," he added wryly.

          Jim smiled and took the proffered hand, the nagging sense of familiarity growing stronger with the touch. He frowned, staring into the man's blue eyes, searching, his grasp tightening when the Native tried to withdraw.

          John looked away, but not fast enough. The Sentinel blinked at him, then swallowed, and the older man glanced back, saw his expression and sighed. "Damn," he said softly, "I hoped you wouldn't figure it out until later."

          Jim glanced past him to Blair, who stood, staring off into the jungle, caught in his own thoughts. "Are you going to tell him?"

          Lonetree lifted a shoulder and let it drop. "I already have. He'll remember when he's out of here and back home."

          "He's not going to be happy about that," Ellison commented.

          The Native snorted softly. "I know, but he didn't need the distraction here and I wanted to get to know him without any preconceptions on his part. Anyway, thanks for everything you've done with him, and will do in the future. I'd better not see either of you on this side anytime soon."

          Jim smiled, releasing the man's hand. "We'll do our best. And thanks – for Blair."

          "Hey, I can say that for myself," Sandburg protested, shaking himself out of his preoccupation and turning to glance at them. But the Sentinel saw the acknowledgment in John's eyes and knew the older man understood.

          "Time to go," Lonetree commented, stepping over to pick up his M-16. "I'm off. I'll see both of you later." And with a brief clasp of Blair's shoulder he headed off through the brush, angling toward the trail.

          Jim stepped over to where his friend stood, staring after the older man and clasped his shoulder gently. "He'll be all right, Chief."

          Blair glanced up at him, his gaze sober. "I know. I just wonder if I'll ever see him again."

          Far away, a wolf howled, the sound drifting across the valley, and Ellison smiled. "I wouldn't be too surprised," he answered. "Let's go."

          Blair sighed, then nodded, following him into the jungle.

 


	20. Chapter 20

_This isn't working_ , Jim thought grimly, trying not to stumble as he led the way around yet another tiger pit.

          The firebase was clear against the skyline, but reaching it seemed even more impossible than before. They and John had parted ways three hours earlier by the ex-Ranger's internal clock, and although the VC seemed to vanish after that, booby traps of various kinds grew ever more frequent along the trail, making every yard increasingly dangerous.

          He paused to study the path ahead, then shook his head. "I'm going to see if we can skirt this through the jungle," he commented, glancing down at Blair, who stood beside him.

          "Probably not a bad idea," Sandburg agreed, not looking away from the trail. Jim could hear the weariness layering under the man's voice, but Sandburg fought it back under control before the tiny quiver was quite audible.

          "Stay here," Ellison advised, clasping his shoulder. "I'll call you when I've checked it out."

          The grad student nodded, and the ex-Ranger pushed some of the branches aside and stepped into the jungle, weaving through the lush growth, trying to look everywhere at once. He halted one pace past a large tree and stood still, holding his breath.

          The cobra was huge, and he watched, mesmerized, as it swayed from side to side, its hood spread wide, the flat eyes fixed on him. He took one slow step back, then another, saw the minuscule tightening of its skin and leaped aside as it struck. A rock turned under his foot and he stumbled, caught himself and dodged a second strike. The fangs missed his thigh by less than an inch, and he thrust himself through the undergrowth and back out on the trail.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Jim!"

          Blair's shove followed his shout so closely that the tiger's lunge fell short, missing the detective's shoulders and landing on the trail instead. Caught in the act of stepping off the path, Ellison froze, then jerked the anthropologist out of the way as the animal squalled and lunged at him, the closest target. They stumbled backward, and the cat spat and slunk back into the undergrowth, its low, snarling growl providing a counterpoint to their racing heartbeats for long moments as the sound faded into the distance.

          "Wow," the younger man said at last, "that's two times in the last two hours we've met something non-native to this region when we try to leave the path. The computer must not like us in the jungle."

          The heartbeat slamming in the Sentinel's ears belied the grad student's even tone, and the ex-Ranger glanced at him. "Maybe so. Thanks. I should've looked up."

          "Hey, man," Sandburg pointed out, "neither of us are at our shining best right now. That's why we watch each other's backs, right?"

          "Right," the older man agreed, cocking his head to study the path ahead, then shook it. "There's three mines in that stretch," he commented, turning toward the jungle, "and I don't see a way through it without triggering at least one of them. I'm going to try the jungle again."

          Blair's glance was dubious, but he followed Jim without hesitation when the older man shoved his way through a gap in the foliage and stepped off the trail.

          Five steps later Jim heard the anthropologist's stifled gasp and whirled, his eyes widening when he saw the large scorpion balancing on his Guide's shoulder.

          Sandburg stood very still, his breath caught in his throat, not daring to turn his head toward the Sentinel. The scorpion clicked its claws, shifted position and raised its tail.

          Ellison's fist smashed into the creature as the tail stabbed downward, and the scorpion tumbled from its perch, the detective yanking the grad student forward at the same time.

          Blair sucked in a breath, then pointed. "Jim!"

          The ex-Ranger spun, then turned back. Together they started back toward the trail, dodging through the trees at a near run.

          Sandburg tripped, almost falling, but Jim caught his shoulder and the anthropologist found his footing again, the two of them plunging through the last veil of leaves and onto the path.

          The great cats halted at the trail's edge, snarling, and the men stopped, turning to stare.

          "I know I've never seen those in any jungle," Jim declared.

          "And you won't, either," Blair commented, shaking his head. "Lions prefer the savanna. I told you, the computer really doesn't want us off the trail."

          Ellison sighed. "I guess we're stuck with it, then." He studied the path ahead of them, grimacing.

          "Tired?" the anthropologist asked quietly when the Sentinel shook his head and blinked.

          Jim sighed. "Some. My senses were acting up while you were gone, and they're starting to again."

          Blair chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze sober on the older man. "I hate to say it, but we're running out of options. Either we get out of here soon, or we're both dying here. I wish you'd taken me up on my idea." Ellison looked at him, and he shrugged. "Okay, okay, I know – all of us or none." He paused, his eyes shadowed for a moment, then continued. "I'd suggest we rest, but I'm not sure our escort's going to let us, so we might as well go."

          The ex-Ranger glanced at the lions, who still stood, watching them. One of them opened its mouth in a silent snarl, and the detective shrugged. "I guess you're right." He clasped Blair's shoulder. "Just in case… It's been good, Chief."

          The Guide looked up at him and smiled. "It's been one hell of a ride, and I wouldn't have traded it for anything. And hey," he added, "to everyone out there, if we don't make it, it was a really cool experience – no regrets. And Mom, I love you. If this doesn't work, I'll be around, I promise." He looked up at the older man and took a deep breath. "Into the breach, huh?"

          Jim smiled at him, and together they started down the trail.


	21. Chapter 21

          "Okay," Blair panted, "so far, so good. Just that last one to go and we're home free." _At least for this stretch. But one problem at a time._ He wavered where he stood, fighting to keep his balance. With one leg stretched behind and the other stretched forward, his center of gravity was all-important right now, and he focused on that, at last standing still.

          Jim didn't reply. One step ahead of Sandburg, he was studying the path, the frown line heavy between his brows. "All right," he said abruptly. "I think I see where to go, but if I miss, we're going to be explaining to John why we're on the wrong side of the line."

          "Then don't miss, big guy, please," the shaman requested, "because I'd really rather not have that conversation."

          Ellison's lips twitched. "Here goes." He stepped forward. For a moment it seemed like it had worked, and then they both heard the click as the Sentinel's weight settled. "Damn," the ex-Ranger whispered. "The son-of-a-bitch had a second mine buried deeper." He looked back at Blair, careful not to move anything but his head. "Sorry, Chief, but if I move, this'll go off and blow both of us to kingdom come. You've got to go back."

          "Right," Blair answered, the sarcasm clear in his voice, "and just leave you to stand there until you're forced to move – not likely."

          "Damn it, Sandburg," Jim snapped, "there's nothing you can do here. You've got a chance if you leave now! So go!"

          Blair hiked an eyebrow at him. "Where? And if you tell me to retrace my path," he added when Jim took a breath, "you've got to be kidding. I couldn't find my way back along this trail alone any more than I can go forward. And if you think about it, you'll know I'm telling you the truth. It'd take Sentinel senses to make headway in either direction, and I'm a shaman, not…" He trailed off, his gaze suddenly intent and focused inward.

          "What?" Ellison asked, recognizing the look. Hope lifted a cautious head, and he reined it back with a jerk. "Chief?"

          "Huh," he murmured, "maybe… Yeah… Yeah, I think it'd work."

          "What?" the detective gritted, keeping his temper with difficulty.

          Blair took a breath, focusing back on him. "Okay, I have an idea, but it's kind of, well, it'd be weird in your book. But I think it might work to get us out of here once and for all."

          "You mean win the game?" Just saying the word made Jim realize how much he had started to take the whole experience for granted. He felt as if he'd always been here, struggling through a madman's idea of Vietnam, and the loft, Simon, Joel, Naomi, his life with Blair, were all visions of another world he'd dreamed of, long ago. And for Blair it had to be even more intense. To finish it all, to break through and win, seemed the stuff of fairy tales.

          "I mean," Sandburg said, holding his gaze, "to win the game, to wake up and go home."

          Ellison took a deep breath, trying to stuff his rising hope into the hole he'd buried it in and finding it an impossible task. "What do you have in mind, Chief?"

          "Shape-shifting."

          Jim blinked at him. "Say again?"

          "Shape-shifting," Blair repeated. "If we change into our spirit animals, and then back, I think it might confuse the computer program and we'll wake up."

          The hope dried up and blew away, replaced by disbelief. "Uh, Chief," Jim said, frowning, "time out. We can't change into our spirit animals. You told me yourself this place is real, and that means shape-shifting isn't something we can do here."

          "Yes, it is," Blair asserted. "Reality is what you make of it here, and shape-shifting to something we both know is real shouldn't be a problem."

          Ellison stared at him. "But– Look, this place is real, physical enough I can use my senses. If I can do that, I can't change shape. It's not possible to do both, even if I knew how to shape-shift in the first place, which I don't."

          The anthropologist sighed. "Jim, think about it. This is my version of reality, we're in my head. Sure, some of it's fed to me, but I can change it, almost break it. Think of John. He was a spirit, choosing to manifest here for his own reasons, and he seemed solid and real. So shifting to another shape is equally possible. There's nothing to say you have to stay in your own shape in a reality you can switch things around in."

          Jim took a deep breath. It made a crazy kind of sense if he didn't think about it too long. "All right," he replied, deciding to go along for the ride, "but what makes you think that'll get us out of here?"

          Blair grinned. "Remember what you told me Harrington said about the computer algorithms changing when I tried to break out?"   He waited for Jim's nod, then continued. "You said he mentioned things like that several times before you hooked yourself up. I think every time there's an anomaly that doesn't fit the program, the computer kind of stumbles, and as it stumbles more and more the program starts to fall apart.

          "John was one anomaly," Blair said, riding right over Jim's attempt to interrupt, "a big one since he wasn't supposed to be here, or to help me. My own ability to adapt was an anomaly. So was our link. The times when we communicated were events the computer couldn't interpret, and the program suffered."

          "I think I see," Jim nodded, his gaze intent on the younger man. "When you changed the rocks into grass at the cave that morning, that wouldn't fit the computer's expectations, either. Or when you almost broke out. That must've been a big one."

          "Yeah, exactly!" Blair agreed, his eyes sparkling with almost the same level of energy Jim saw when the grad student was working a case with him. "And then you were hooked up. The computer might've been able to handle that setup on a theoretical level, but the practical reality of it would've been another anomaly. And when you didn't end up in your version of Vietnam but in mine, that might've really screwed its little brain. Add in our interactions with each other, and with John, and his decision to lead the VC off, and the computer's probably already having fits. That's why it's throwing things into its own program that don't fit."

          "The cobra," Jim commented, nodding again. "The tiger and the scorpion, and–"

          "The lions," Sandburg finished. "Not to mention how the trail's gotten more and more dangerous, and how we're not allowed to move off of it anymore. That didn't used to be the case. The program is trying to cut down on aberrations."

          Ellison took a breath, holding his balance with all the focus he could spare. "So you think throwing a big anomaly at it will confuse it to the point where we might be able to wake up."

          "Exactly," Blair agreed, smiling. "And I think shape-shifting to our spirit animals and back might be the final kicker."

          Jim swallowed. "But, I don't have the faintest idea how to do that. And if I did, my weight would change, too, and the mine'll blow. And all of this will be for nothing."

          Sandburg shook his head. "No, it won't. The jaguar can leap away from that mine and avoid the blast without a problem, assuming we're here long enough for that to happen. I'm guessing that the computer's right on the edge, and the anomaly of both of us shifting shape will knock us right out of the program without even having to change back to our human forms. And as for how to do it, I'll show you."

          The Sentinel's eyebrows went up. "You know how to shape-shift?"

          "Uh, yeah, sort of," Sandburg muttered, his gaze sliding away.

          "Sort of?"

          Blair sighed. "I've practiced, okay? Can we get on with this, please?"

          "Whatever you say, Chief," Ellison replied, smiling. It wasn't often he got to tease his friend about being a shaman, and he planned on remembering it.

          "Okay," Blair sighed, "first, I want us to use the link to do this. So close your eyes and find it, then reach for me."

          Jim studied him for a long moment, fixing the image in his mind, just in case the wrong things happened and this was their last time working together. Blair's knowing look told him the younger man understood. Jim took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

          The feeling of standing beside his friend was so real he almost opened his eyes again, but Blair smiled at him and he realized that, in this place, Sandburg still looked exhausted, but his clothes were clean, his hair brushed and he was uninjured. The Sentinel felt his shoulders relax and the anthropologist nodded.

          "Good, Jim. Good. It should be easy to use the link this time; we're in my mind, essentially, and because you had to use the link to climb into my version of Vietnam, it's a much more tangible subconscious bond than it would usually be."

          "Glad to hear it," Jim mumbled. "So, how do we do this?"

          "Like this," Blair said, reaching to take his hand in both of his own.

          What happened next was something Jim could never describe, even to himself. He was rushing forward, streaks of light passing by him, and he knew, at some level, that they were stars. There was a moment where the cosmos turned inside out, burning images of a thousand, thousand, thousand stars into his soul before swallowing him whole into darkness, and in that darkness lay union, and wholeness, and self, all bound into one being.

          And then it was all light, and heat, and smothering smells, different smells this time, and he launched himself into the air, paws outstretched toward safety, and time, and reality, and home. Behind him he caught a glimpse of the wolf, leaping from one patch of earth to another, fleeing the coming holocaust with a speed equal to his own.

          And then the world went away, as suddenly as if someone had switched off the TV.


	22. Chapter 22

          "Yes!" a man shouted, and a number of people cheered.

          Blair pried his eyes open, blinking against the fluorescent light that glared into them. He barely had time to register the straps binding him before they were gone, and then Naomi bent over him, her face wet with tears, and hugged him hard.

          He wrapped his arms around her and clung tightly for a long moment, more for security in a world that had so suddenly changed around him than for any emotional reason. The universe had touched him, and at the moment his only feeling was numb shock. "Jim?" he rasped when Naomi released him, surprised by how hoarse he sounded.

          "He's fine, Blair."

          Simon's voice was very tired, and turning his head, the grad student blinked at the man standing between his bed and that of his partner. "Man," he slurred, "you look terrible."

          A brief smile touched the captain's lips. "Thanks, Sandburg. I'll remember you said that."

          "Uh-huh," the anthropologist said, focusing on the Sentinel now slowly pushing himself to a seated position in the next bed. "Jim?"

          Ellison blinked at him. "Hey, Chief. We made it. You can rest now."

          Blair thought about that, returning Joel's smile from where he stood at the foot of the Guide's bed. He yawned, then turned over and curled onto his side, closing his eyes as sleep claimed him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "So what's the verdict, Doctor?" Simon asked when Rivers joined them in the private waiting room. Joel straightened from where he sat next to Banks, Naomi paced over from her place at the window, and Kelso rolled in a little closer.

          "Good," Alan sighed as he sat down to face them, his glance flicking to Jim, who was staring past him with an intent look that didn't shift when the man leaned back into his line of sight. "What's wrong with him?" he asked, frowning.

          Simon looked at his detective and shrugged. "He's been like that ever since they took Blair away. He's listening."

          The doctor blinked at him. "To Sandburg?"

          "Probably," Joel answered, smiling. "He's sure not listening to us."

          Alan shook his head. "I can't imagine living with those kinds of abilities. It must play havoc with his system sometimes."

          "Sometimes," Banks agreed, "but Sandburg helps him keep it under control. And what about Blair?"

          "He’s doing well. Very well," Rivers answered, smiling. "The drug's already breaking down and it won't have any side-effects that we can see.”

          "I thought you said it would kill him if it ran through his system much longer," Kelso commented. "Today's Sunday, and they woke up at eight p.m; they must've been pushing the line pretty closely – Blair at least. But you say it's breaking down without any side-effects?"

          Rivers nodded. "That's a good question. Yes, they were pushing the line. A couple more hours and I think we might've started to see some damage showing up in Mr. Sandburg's systems. But remember when Blair asked us to turn down the dosage? That lengthened the time they had. He wouldn't have started to suffer brain damage until around ten tomorrow morning. Fortunately, we didn't have to worry about that."

          "And now it's breaking down?" Naomi asked, leaning forward. "Without harming him?"

          "Yes," Alan replied. "The drug's dangerous in large dosages, over long periods of time, because a steady supply in the bloodstream keeps the compound at a level where it can do serious damage. But stop adding the drug to the system, and what's there starts to break down almost immediately, rendering it quickly harmless with no side-effects." He shook his head. "It must've been engineered to do just that, and whoever created it knew exactly what they were doing." He frowned and glanced at Jim. "Of course, that's for an ordinary person. The blood sample I took from Mr. Ellison shows it's breaking down for him, too, but I can't guarantee it won't have any side-effects on a Sentinel. There's just no way to predict."

          "Yeah," Simon rumbled, looking at his oblivious friend, "I've been wondering about that."

          "But the important thing is that he'll be all right," Joel said quietly.

"If all goes well, I think he'll be able to go home tomorrow afternoon," Alan promised. "That is," he added, chuckling, "if he wakes up by then."

"He's still asleep, then?" Naomi asked, her hands clasped in her lap.

"Oh, very much so," the doctor replied. "He hasn't woken up since he fell asleep after breaking out, and he's unlikely to for a while. We put him on an IV again since right now sleep is more important for him than food. He'll wake up when he needs to go to the bathroom – I didn't think he'd want a catheter. And he's off the hospital schedule until otherwise noted."

"So the nurses won't be waking him up for breakfast, or stuff like that?" Kelso asked, smiling.

"Right," Rivers nodded. "And yes, he can have visitors, but only if you don't wake him."

"I think we can manage that," Simon said dryly, glancing around at the others, who all nodded. "And thank you, Doctor. We couldn't have done it without you. Your time will be reimbursed by the department."

"No problem," Alan said, rising. "I'm just very glad it worked out well. And if Mr. Ellison ever wants to visit a doctor who understands his, uh, condition, tell him to look me up."

"I'll do that," Banks agreed, standing to shake the man's hand. "As long as his Sentinel abilities are kept strictly off any official records."

"Of course," the doctor answered. "That's a given."

          "But all of that can never repay what you've done," Naomi said, standing when Rivers did and grasping his hands. "Thank you, so very much." She leaned over and kissed his cheek, then released him.

          Alan reddened, much to the amusement of the other men. "Thank you, Ms. Sandburg, but I was only doing my job. I'm just glad it worked out as well as it did." His beeper went off, and he looked down at it, then up at them. "I've got to go, but I'll keep you updated if anything happens. All of you are cleared as visitors to Blair's room, provided you don't wake him until he does it himself. There's even a second bed in there if anyone feels the urge to use it. And if Mr. Ellison needs any help I can provide," he added, glancing at Banks, "don't hesitate to give me a call."

          "We'll keep that in mind," Simon agreed. "Hopefully, we won't require your services."

          "I hope not," Rivers commented, "but if you do need them, they're available. Have a good night, and I'd advise all of you to go home and get some sleep yourselves." And he was out the door, his footsteps quick along the corridor outside.

          Joel stretched. "Well, I'm for home – anyone with me?"

          Simon nodded, glancing around at the others. "I think we should all go home. Sandburg doesn't need us, and we can all use some rest." His gaze lingered on the Sentinel, still hunched in his listening pose. "But I think I'd better take Jim home with me and keep an eye on him." He looked at Naomi. "You're welcome to join us, but the loft will be much more comfortable."

          She shook her head. "I have another idea. Why don't we settle Jim in the bed in Blair's room? If he's going to have trouble with his senses, at least he'll be close to his Guide. They've spent so much time together recently, I wonder if it might not make Blair more comfortable too, even if he's not really conscious of it."

          Banks looked at her, then glanced at Joel. "Why can't I have more detectives who think like that?"

          "I don't know," Kelso offered, a grin quirking his lips, "Blair thinks like that, and I've heard from him what you say about his ideas."

          Simon _hrrumphed_. "That's different. I have to keep the kid in line somehow. I can't have him thinking he's right _all_ the time."

          Naomi smiled at the captain, her eyes glinting. "But he is, isn't he?"

          "If we're going to put Jim to bed," Simon said, ignoring her comment, "let's get on with it."

          "Sure," Joel answered, his eyes crinkling around the corners, "why not?" He headed toward the Sentinel, halting to lean over and say to Naomi, "One of these days we'll have to sit down and I'll tell you some stories about Sandburg and–"

          "Taggert!" Simon barked. "Are you going to help me with Jim or not!"

          "On my way," the burly captain answered, straightening with a smile. "Is it a date?" he asked the woman.

          "I'd enjoy that very much," she assured him. "Perhaps before I leave we could get together."

          "Now, Joel!" Banks snapped, sitting down beside Jim.

          "Coming," the man replied, whistling softly as he paced over to join his friend.

          "Well," Kelso smiled, "I think I'll be heading off to my own bed. I plan on dropping by to see Blair tomorrow, so I'll probably see some of you there. Have a good night, and good luck with Jim," he said.

          "No problem," Simon replied, "you've earned a rest. As for him," he added, glancing at the Sentinel, "I hope I don't need it."

          "Me, too," Jack agreed. "Who knows? Maybe he'll surprise you." He lifted his hand and rolled through the door, his wheels humming down the corridor.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "All right," Simon sighed after lifting Jim's legs onto the bed. "I think we're through here."

          "Yep," Joel responded from the head of the bed where he'd helped lay the Sentinel down, "me, too."

          Together they glanced at the other bed, their gazes drawn to the slim woman standing silent beside it, backlit by the small lamp the nurse had flicked on when they'd entered.

          Blair lay curled on his side, knees slightly bent, one arm under his pillow. Light blankets covered him, and the lines of tension and weariness, so clear just hours earlier, were gone now. He looked many years younger than his adult self, an impression heightened when Naomi leaned forward and tucked a blanket in a little closer. Blair didn't stir.

          Simon cleared his throat. "Naomi? It's time to go," he said gruffly.

          "Yes," she said softly, leaning forward to kiss her son on the forehead, "I'm coming."

          Turning, she joined them at the door, then, glancing back, she chose one of the blankets the nurse had left on a chair and walked over to Jim's bed, shaking it out over the Sentinel. Ellison lay quiet, his eyes closed and his breathing as even as Sandburg's. She checked to make sure he was fully covered before flicking off the lamp and following the other two out, closing the door behind her.


	23. Chapter 23

          Jim blinked awake, stiffening for a moment as he identified himself in a strange bed, then relaxing when he recognized the hospital smells. Blair's heartbeat thrummed in his ears, a comforting, familiar background, and he inhaled and closed his eyes, sliding toward sleep again.

          A nurse walked by the room, her soft-soled shoes almost silent on the floor. He sleepily followed the footsteps down the hallway to the nurse's station, where a steady beeping noise distracted him. It died after a moment, and then the shrill _ding_ of a microwave finishing its cycle blasted through him.

          He jerked to a sitting position, hands over his ears. The tick of his wristwatch boomed through his head, and he dropped that hand, only to return it as the nurse's voice screeched through his head.

          "…little… today… you?"

          The words bounced up and down in volume and tone, and he gasped as a nearby vent abruptly turned on, the rasping buzz accompanied by a blast of air that slid down his body, encasing him in a furnace of heat. Sweat soaked his shirt in seconds, the resulting coolness sending icy ripples down his legs. He shuddered.

          The taste of dust on his tongue forced him to choke, and he retched as it slid down his throat, his stomach roiling at the input. The vent stopped blowing, but the sudden cessation of heat allowed his sweat to cool even more, and he pulled his knees up into his chest, trying to conserve body heat without releasing his ears.

          "Jim! Jim, listen to me!" Warm hands slid over his, loosening their grip. "There are no sounds but my voice, Jim, nothing but my heartbeat and my voice in your ears. Do you hear me?"

          Jim managed to take a breath, then winced as the vent flipped on again, shivering as the gusty wind stripped right through his clothes, blowing dust up his nostrils. He sneezed, tears immediately flooding his closed eyes.

          "Jim, there are no breezes, no air blowing on you. You feel nothing but my hands on your skin, hear nothing but my voice and my heartbeat. Do you hear me, Jim?"

          He nodded, once, dragging in a deep breath and gripping the hands that held his.

          "Good. Good. Jim, listen to me now. You smell nothing, taste nothing, hear nothing but me. My touch, my smell, my scent is all you experience. Do you hear me?"

          Ellison sucked in another breath, relaxing into the familiar scent, focused only on the comfortable voice and the well-known touch. "Yes," he whispered.

          "Good. See the dial for your hearing, Jim? It's set at normal, and that's all you hear, normal sounds, usual sounds, nothing above or below the ordinary range. Do you hear me?"

          "Yes," he rasped, hearing the quietness of the hospital room and nothing outside it.

          "Good. Now see the dial for your sense of touch. See it, Jim? It's set at normal, and that's all you feel – my hands on your skin, the sheet against your body, the heater when it turns on and off. You aren't too hot or too cold, you're comfortable, your body feels normal, ordinary. Do you hear me?"

          "Yes," Jim said, his shoulders relaxing as the extra heat ebbed away, the sweat only faintly cool against his skin.

          "Good. Now, one more time, Jim. See the dial for your sense of taste and smell? It's set to normal, too. No extremes of taste, no smells outside the ordinary range. You feel normal, with nothing unusual in your nose or your mouth. Do you hear me?"

          Jim took a deep breath, releasing his grip on his friend's hands. "I hear you, Chief."

          "Then open your eyes, and don't enhance your sight."

          Jim opened his eyes, blinking in the darkness. Blair was a dark shape seated on the bed in front of him, and without thinking he focused, just a little.

          The room jumped, the effect much like sharpening an image on the TV screen, and he stared at his Guide, seeing the alert eyes, their pupils wide in the dark, and the intent expression, weariness buried behind it. Jim's gaze dropped and he frowned, reaching to touch the loose wrapping around one wrist.

          "Jim," Blair chided, "you aren't supposed to be using Sentinel sight."

          "It's just a little," he replied, trying not to sound defensive. "What is this–? Oh." He looked up again. "You ripped out your IV."

          Sandburg shrugged. "How do you feel?"

          The Sentinel sighed, guilt nudging him. "Chief–"

          "Jim, for crying out loud, I'm your Guide. Do you think I can sleep through something like that? How do you feel?"

          Ellison took a breath, warmth flushing through him. "Fine," he said lowly. "I feel fine."

          "Really?"

          Jim didn't fight the smile this time. "Yeah, really." He took a breath. "Thanks."

          Blair smiled, the quirked, vibrant expression the Sentinel had missed for so long. "You're welcome. What happened? You don't generally zone-out across senses."

          Jim grimaced. "I'm not sure. It was happening when you were gone, too. I'd focus on one sense, and others would flare up and I couldn't get out."

          "Mmm." Sandburg frowned, absently drumming the fingers of one hand on the coverlet. "I wonder if I was sharing the drug."

          "What do you mean?"

          Blair looked up at him. "Well, the drug made me more suggestible… Another way of describing that is to say it lowered my control over my own perceptions of reality."

          "Making you more susceptible to the recording," Jim said, nodding.

          "Yeah." Blair swallowed, and Ellison felt the barely perceptible tremor that shook through him. "But part of what happens when you zone is a loss of control over boundaries, an inability to say, 'hell no, I won't go'."

          Ellison rolled his eyes. "Sandburg."

          "Sorry," the anthropologist grinned. "Vietnam's going to be with me for a while. Anyway, I wonder if I was passing on the effect of the drug to you via our link, and that screwed up your senses. Did it get worse as the week went on?"

          "Yeah," the detective admitted.

          "Then I think that's what happened," he commented. "I passed it on to you, and you suffered accordingly." He sighed. "And because the drug's still breaking down in both our systems, you're still dealing with the effects until it's gone. Sorry about that."

          "It's not like you could've known or stopped it," the Sentinel pointed out, resting his hand on his friend's shoulder. "And it was my choice to hook myself up. Anyway," he added in a low voice, glancing away and pulling his hand away, "the way we were arguing, I wouldn't have thought our link could even connect us anymore."

          "No guilt trips, remember?" Blair chided. "We both made mistakes. We were both right, and both wrong. But this should show us something, too – when push came to shove, it didn't make a damn bit of difference whether we were angry at each other or not. You're a Sentinel, Jim, and I'm your Guide. We're bound, and whatever our feelings about it, that bond isn't going away."

          Ellison took a breath, some tension deep inside easing, and he sighed. "I guess not. And Chief, I'm not sorry, either." He heard the soft inhale and the swallow.

          "Neither am I," Blair admitted.

          "Good," the detective declared, "and I think it's time to put you back to bed. I'm all right, Blair," he added when the younger man started to protest. "But you need some more sleep."

          The grad student frowned. "Are you sure you're okay?"

          "Yeah," Jim assured. "I am."

          Blair yawned. "All right," he said, the words slurring slightly as he slid off the bed. "But I'll visit the bathroom first." He did so, then came back in, crossing to his own bed and glancing over at Jim. "You're sure?"

          "Yes. Go to sleep," Jim replied, the words soft as the anthropologist climbed onto the bed and snuggled under the covers. He heard his friend's breathing even out and smiled, sliding off his own bed to go find a nurse to fix the IV, and knowing, even as he left the room, that Blair wouldn't wake when she did it. He could make sure of that.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Jim climbed the outside stairs to the loft, automatically seeking out the heartbeat steady behind the portal and relaxing into it. Blair had warned Jim his senses might be somewhat uncertain for a few days, "kind of like having a tender stomach," the Guide had commented, and he'd been right. But so far Ellison hadn't had any zone-outs since the one Sandburg had interrupted the night in the hospital, and since it was now two days later, he was beginning to breathe a little easier. But still, it was a relief to come home and not face the evening alone.

          He pushed open the door to the hallway and strode toward the loft entrance, digging out his keys with one hand. And it was good, he privately acknowledged, to come home and know that, for tonight at least, it would just be himself and Blair. He'd left Naomi having supper with Simon and Joel, her treat, and couldn't help wondering what stories the two would be telling her. Dangerous ones, he was sure.

          But she was spending the night with a friend, and had told him, fixing him with too-understanding eyes, that he and Blair needed to "reconnect and reaffirm your commitments to each other. And for that you need peace and quiet." She would be back the next night, her last, and after that it would probably be a few months before they saw her again.

          He inserted the key into the loft door and twisted, pushing it open, blinking at the near darkness inside. It was only eight o'clock, and usually Blair was still up. Still, maybe he'd been tired from his first day back on campus and had simply gone to bed early.

          "No lights, okay?"

          Jim halted with his finger on the switch, then turned to shut the door behind himself. He stepped into the living room, his sight automatically widening to take in the light available.

          There was more light than he'd thought, since three small candles were set on the coffee table in front of the couch, their flames burning straight and still. A soft thread of instrumental music greeted him, the harmonies quiet and reflective.

          He paused, taking a step backward. This had the feel of a personal session, and he didn't want to interrupt something like that. God knew, Sandburg had enough to put into perspective. If he needed privacy it seemed that was the least Jim could offer him. He paced toward the loft stairs, moving quietly.

          "Jim."

          He hesitated, then turned, knowing the anthropologist could see him.

          "Did you know?"

          Ellison frowned, searching backward and finding nothing to fit the quiet question. "Know what, Chief?"

          "John."

          The detective took a deep breath, then walked over and sat down in the chair set to one side of the coffee table. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, Blair watched him in silence. "Yes," Jim answered. "I knew."

          The grad student leaned his elbows on his knees, studying him. "When?"

          "When he said goodbye," Ellison answered, meeting the younger man's eyes. "He felt familiar from the time I met him, but when I shook his hand, I knew."

          "I guess that makes sense," Sandburg said after a moment. "For a Sentinel, parenthood might be easy to see. His scent might have given it away, if nothing else. I'd guess parents do pass something like that on to their children."

          "Not just his scent," Jim said softly. Feeling Blair's glance, he continued. "It was everything, Chief – the way he moved, the tones of his voice, his smile. There was something in his eyes that reminded me of you. Even the way his hair fell. I think if he hadn't worn it braided the resemblance would've been even clearer."

          Blair slid his hands over his eyes and bent forward, taking a long breath. "Why didn't you tell me?"

          Ellison winced away from the pain under the question. "I'm sorry, but I felt it was his call, and he didn't want to tell you, especially not at the end there. He said he wanted to get to know you without you having any preconceptions."

          "Ah, man," the anthropologist sighed, dropping his hands to look at the Sentinel. "I finally get to meet my father, and it's in a madman's idea of Vietnam, without time to get to know him. That's just not fair."

          "I thought you didn't really care who your father was," Jim said carefully. "That part of the fun was guessing. It never seemed to bother you."

          Blair lifted a shoulder and dropped it, and Ellison smiled slightly, recognizing the move as the older man's. "Yeah," he agreed, "that's true. But, damn, he was everything I would've have liked in a father, and I didn't even get to tell him that!"

          "I think he knows," Ellison replied, the words gentle. Somewhere, far back in the city, he heard a wolf howl, and smiled as his Guide cocked his head.

          "That's the other thing," Sandburg sighed. "He was a shaman, too. I never knew the path I was walking had any past, any roots, and now I know it does, but I don't know any more than that." He snorted. "Hell, I don't even know what tribe he was… what I am. I never thought I had a heritage."

          "It's frustrating," Jim finished for him.

          "Yeah!" Blair huffed once, then sighed. "I have so many questions, and there's no one to answer them. Frustrating doesn't begin to cover it!"

          The Sentinel couldn't help the smile that quirked his mouth. How like the anthropologist to have questions and no answers. John had gotten off easy. "You could ask Naomi," he offered.

          The younger man was silent for a long time, finally shaking his head. "No."

          Ellison heard the uncertainty under the word and cocked his head. "Why not?"

          "Because she said she never knew my father," he answered, the words hesitant. "Mom never lied to me, and I don't think she did then. But I can't believe she could forget John. I guess she might not have known he was my father, but talking about Vietnam always bothered her, and I don't want to hurt her."

          Jim bent his head. The bond between mother and son was one he'd never had and always wondered about. The protectiveness in Blair's voice touched him somewhere deep. "She wants to know what happened there."

          "I know," Sandburg admitted, staring at him. "I figured I'd tell her as much as she needed to know, and let it go at that. John's a pretty common name, and I don't have to mention his last name was Lonetree."

          He paused, and Ellison smiled, not needing any psychic powers to know what had just struck his friend. "I guess in some sense it's your last name, too."

          Blair swallowed, the sound audible to the Sentinel. "I guess so," he whispered, taking a breath. "Not that I'd change mine," he added. "But still…"

          "It's good to know," Jim finished. He hesitated, then, as the grad student leaned forward to blow out the candles, he said, "Chief."

          Sandburg glanced up, the pupils of his eyes widening as the darkness deepened. "Yeah, Jim?"

          "Are you glad you know?"

          There was silence for a long moment, and then Blair nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I am. Really glad."

          "Good," Ellison said, standing when the anthropologist did. "Because he was a good man, Chief. I'm glad I met him."

          "So am I," his Guide said softly, stepping up to him and touching his shoulder. "So am I."

          Jim gave into impulse and pulled Sandburg into a hug, feeling the momentary start in the younger man fade into a quick relaxation, and he smiled into the darkness, determined to hold onto this closeness and not lose it like he had the last time.

          "Me, too," Blair agreed, his voice muffled, and Ellison could hear the smile at his own startled response. "Me, too. Let's not do that again, Jim."

          "I promise," the Sentinel said softly, "never again."


	24. Chapter 24

          "Hey, Mom," Blair shrugged, "it's not like there's that much to tell about it. I mean, it was a lot of running and hiding and being shot at, and not much else."

          It was the next evening, and he and Jim and Naomi were all seated in the living room after supper. Sunset was fading in the western sky, and late twilight flooded the patio. The Sentinel let his gaze stray outside, watching the crow perching on the patio wall and letting the conversation roll over him.

          "But it's a very important experience to you, Blair, so I would like to hear about it. Especially about this John, who was so helpful."

          "John was great," the anthropologist agreed. "Really great. If it hadn't been for him, I don't think I would've made it as far as I did. He saved my life a lot of times, and kept my sanity going until Jim got there." He smiled, thoughtful. "I guess you'd say that he's the only good thing about the whole experience." _Besides reconnecting with Jim_.

          He glanced up to find the Sentinel's eyes on him and flushed, dipping his head. "It was all about seizing the moment and running with it, Mom," he added hastily. "Nothing else worth telling."

          Naomi set her cup of tea down with careful precision. "What did you say?"

          "Huh?" Blair blinked at her. "That there's nothing else–"

          "No. Before that. It was all about what?"

          Blair frowned at her, hearing the sudden focus in her voice. "Uh, that the experience was all about taking advantage of any opportunities that came along and using them to survive."

          "What did you call it?" Naomi's voice was tense, and the grad student swallowed, a sudden hunch blossoming through him. _Oops._

          "Oh, nothing," he answered, leaning over to pick up the bowl of popcorn set between the three of them. "I'll be back. Anyone want more–"

          "Blair, what did you call it?"

          The anthropologist sighed, exchanging glances with Jim. "Seizing the moment," he replied, resigned.

          Naomi fixed him with a stern gaze. "Where did you hear that?"

          Blair sighed again. "John used it."

          The woman was silent for a long moment, and both of them could hear the strain in her voice when she asked, "What was his last name?"

          "He was an imaginary companion, Mom," he evaded. "They don't usually have last names. You know, they're not really important. And I can tell you, I wasn't worrying about–"

          "Blair!" Both men jumped. "His last name," she demanded. "Now."

          "Mom," Sandburg said quietly, "don't ask me that. Please."

          "His name."

          He hesitated, then shrugged. "John Lonetree."

          Naomi stared down at her clasped hands, the blood slowly draining from her cheeks. "What did he tell you?"

          Blair shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Jim, who hiked an eyebrow at him and shrugged. "That he was a friend from a long time ago, there to help me survive," he answered. "I wanted to know what he meant, but he wouldn't let me remember his answer while I was there. He said I'd remember when I got back to my life."

          Her silence was a question, and he nodded. "Yeah, I did remember."

          "Then you know." She paused to steady her voice. "You know then that he was your…" She couldn't bring herself to finish, and Blair nodded.

          "Yeah, I know," he sighed. "John Lonetree was my father." He paused for a long moment. "What I don't understand is why you always told me you didn't know who my father was."

          "Because I didn't know!" she flung at him, raising her head to reveal tear-streaked cheeks. "I knew his name, nothing more, his name and the five glorious weeks we spent before he volunteered for service in Vietnam! I hated him for that," she whispered, staring past Blair to the patio. "I thought he could beat the draft, even if his number was low. He said he'd rather choose his own road than have it taken from him. I begged him to go to Canada, to resist the draft, to run away. He promised me he'd come back, and I believed him."

          "And he died there," Blair said softly.

          "He was always so sure," she murmured. "He had an uncanny way of ending up in dangerous situations and finding unusual ways out of them, and I thought he could do it there, too. He promised me he would." She looked at Blair, blinking tears away. "And you were so much like him. I would've known you were his son, even without his telling me."

          Blair took an uneven breath. "He– He told you?"

          "He came to me." Her voice shook, and Jim looked away, feeling the outsider and wishing he could quietly drift away. "In a dream," she continued. "He said he wouldn't be able to return, and I–I slapped him." She covered her face with her hands and bent forward. "I loved him so much," she whispered. "I never loved anyone like that – before or since. And to know he was gone, would never come back to me…"

          Blair, his own eyes suspiciously wet, scooted over on the couch and pulled her into his embrace, and she broke, sobbing on his shoulder.

          Jim rose, carefully silent, and started out of the room. Two steps later he halted, glancing back. Sandburg stared at him, his gaze intense, and Ellison frowned at him, shaking his head.

          The younger man's eyes narrowed.

          The Sentinel sighed, then walked back and seated himself again.

          "He would've been a great father," Blair murmured. "I can see him being a pretty cool husband, too. I'm sorry, Mom."

          She lifted her head, wiping at her eyes. "Oh, Blair, sweetheart, I'm the one who's sorry. I should've told you, but I was so angry with him at first that I couldn't, and then it hurt so much I didn't want to. I couldn't find my balance…" She laughed shakily. "'Release with love.' Oh, how I've worked for that, but he was the one I could never let go." She looked at him. "And you were so like him. You had his knack for getting into all kinds of trouble, even as a child, and getting yourself out, using your own methods. I was afraid if I told you about him I'd lose you like I lost him. And I wasn't sure I could bear that."

          "Ah, Mom," Blair muttered, dipping his head, his cheeks reddening.

          "That's why I was so upset when you became involved with Jim and the police," she said, glancing at the Sentinel. "It was so what John would've done… It's funny," she said, smiling tremulously at them both. "Do you know what John told me about you? – I didn't know I was pregnant when he died – He told me I was, and when I argued that he had to come back for you, he said, 'My son will do well enough.'"

          Blair swallowed and looked away, then blinked. A black wolf stood on the patio, watching him though the glass. He met the animal's blue gaze eyes and shivered. "Did he ever tell you what tribe he was?" he asked.

          The wolf waved its tail gently, opening its jaws in a canine grin. The young shaman glowered at it.

          "No," she sighed, smoothing his hair. "He'd only say that he was of the Oppressed Native Peoples of America; it was a small movement that died a few years later. All I know is, he was half-Indian, not full. That makes you a fourth."

          Blair swallowed. "He did come back, though," he commented, glancing at his mother. "He told me he dropped by a lot when I was growing up, and I bet he was checking on us both."

          Naomi smiled, her eyes serene again. "I'm not surprised. I thought I felt him sometimes." She took a long breath, then disentangled herself from Blair, bending to kiss him on the forehead. "Thank you, sweetie." She crossed to Ellison, who stood at her approach, meeting her eyes with a serious gaze. "And thank you, Jim, for keeping your promises – both of them."

          He bent his head, not surprised when she moved to kiss him on the cheek. "No problem, Naomi."

          "And now," she said, turning to look at both of them, "I'm going to bed. Thank you both for sharing this evening, and this experience, with me. Good night."

          "Good night," Jim answered.

          "Night, Mom," Blair replied, looking across at her. "And thanks."

          She smiled at him, then stepped into his room, closing the door behind her.

          Blair glanced back at the patio, but the wolf was gone. He shook his head. "Whoa, what a night."

          Jim clasped his shoulder. "You want some coffee?"

          "Yeah," Sandburg replied, glancing up at him. "That sounds like a great idea."

          "Good," Ellison commented, "so do I."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Blair seated himself on the short-mown grass in one fluid movement and stared at the Wall. "Wow," he murmured, "I never guessed it looked like this."

          "I knew it was supposed to be impressive," Naomi agreed, joining him on the plain, "but I had no idea it had this kind of presence."

          "Me, neither," the anthropologist agreed. He looked up, squinting a little. "Hey, Jim, sit down, okay? You're giving me a crick in the neck. Have you seen the Wall before?"

          Jim sat down beside him. "A long time ago, before the women's memorial was here, or the bronze of the three servicemen," he replied, referring to the memorials they had just visited. "The Wall stays with you."

          "I'll say," his Guide whispered.

          They sat there like that for a while, just looking. Other groups were also scattered around, everyone bundled against the crisp November evening. Blair could hear excited conversations about the next day's special events, and was glad Naomi had managed to meet them in D.C. in time for Veteran's Day. It had seemed like a great idea when Jim had offered it a few weeks before, but now, staring at the large sculpture that hosted his father's name, and a part of his own history, he swallowed, nervous.

          "I'm ready," he said, pushing himself to his feet, a move followed by Ellison. "You can wait if you want, Mom," he added when Naomi stood, brushing herself off. "There's no hurry."

          "No," she replied, "I'm ready, too. Let's go."

          It took them a few minutes to acquire the paper to do a rubbing, and a little longer to find the right panel and locate the name. And Blair had to admit to a cold chill raking down his spine when he saw the letters carved into the black stone – JOHN LONETREE. He shivered, and Jim clasped his shoulder, the man's touch warm and solid.

          "I'll leave you to it," the Sentinel commented, and was gone before the anthropologist could say anything.

          Moments later mother and son finished, lowering the paper to stare at the results. Turning, they found themselves facing an older man, who smiled hesitantly at them, his gaze on Blair.

          "Hello," he greeted. "Are you by chance related to John Lonetree?"

          Blair swallowed. "He was my father," he managed, the sheer novelty of the words ringing through him. He heard Naomi take a breath and knew she recognized the moment as well.

          The man smiled. "I thought you might be. You reminded me of him, just the way you were standing there. Plus your eyes," he added. "That must mean that you were his fiancée," he said, turning to Naomi. "He talked about you all the time."

          She blinked at him, swallowing. "Thank you. Were you in his unit?"

          He sighed. "My name's Richard Rodriguez, and yeah, I was in his unit. Actually, I'm the reason he never made it home." Tears welled in the man's eyes, and he looked away, raising a hand to wipe them away. "I'm sorry," he managed, "but John saved my life, and lost his own. I've never forgotten him, or how much I owe him."

          Naomi took a long, deep breath. "How– How did he die?"

          Tears ran down the man's cheeks. "I was the last in line, running for the chopper. The LZ was hot. The chopper guys were trying to cover us, but there were too many troops." He sucked in a deep breath. "I never heard the shot that got me." He traced a line from his back to his stomach, and Blair swallowed, recognizing the injury. "It went right through, back to front, almost got my kidney. I went down hard." Rodriguez swallowed, looking at Blair. "John turned back and helped me up. The bullets were whistling around us so thick… He got me to the chopper, and they pulled me in. Someone pulled him in, too, and the chopper started up. We took a few hits and wobbled a little, and– Someone got off a lucky shot. John went down. The medic tried to help him, but he was already dead – the bullet went right through his heart…"

          One tear crept down Naomi's cheek. "Thank you. I always wondered."

          Rodriguez swiped at his eyes again. "I owe him so much. I named one of my twin boys after him, and I tell the story every year, so he'll be remembered. I'm glad he had a son," he nodded at Blair, "he always said he wanted a child." He looked at Naomi. "I– I have stories about him, if you'd like to hear some of them."

          She extracted a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "I'd like that very much," she said hoarsely, then glanced at her son. "Do you mind, sweetie?"

          Blair smiled and gave her a hug. "Of course not, Mom. Go on, go and listen. Jim and I'll be around, or we'll go back to the hotel. Don't worry about us."

          She kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

          A few minutes later he dropped down by Ellison on the grass again. "Did you hear?"

          The Sentinel shrugged. "I couldn't shut it out."

          "Good," Sandburg commented, settling down to stare at the memorial again.

          "You could have gone and listened to those stories, too."

          Blair shrugged, glancing at him. "I'd like to hear them, but I don't need to. In a weird kind of way, I've got my stories about him in Vietnam. I don't have to hear the ones from back then to make him real to me. He's real now." He took a long breath, eyeing the black wolf sitting on top of the hill backing the sculpture. "Mom needed to talk with someone who knew John back then. Maybe after this she'll finally be able to let him go."

          Jim nodded, and they sat together in a comfortable silence, watching the Wall as the twilight deepened around them. Two friends, bonded once more.

 

The End


End file.
